


Remind Me

by tookumade



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, First Meetings, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 17:56:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13323435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tookumade/pseuds/tookumade
Summary: For Hanamaki and Matsukawa, their first meeting consists of a small accident, a terrible first impression, and the start of something new—maybe something better.(In which they learn to keep trying, and to try again.)





	Remind Me

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends i hope u like some slow burn

People look at Hanamaki all the time. He’s used to it, as someone who has worked in a few different retail jobs over time, and has had to deal with countless customers. It’s usually quick—he helps them with their inquiries, and then he is forgotten about, stored away in the back of their minds as a vague memory; sometimes the people who look at him a little longer have more questions, requests, or want to give him their number or ask him out for coffee. It’s something he’s learned to tolerate and distance himself from for the most part, because honestly, he just wants to finish up his work and go home without causing a scene.  
  
There is a scene today.  
  
It’s late Monday morning. Hanamaki has opened the store for the day at his job at one of Sendai’s Uniqlo stores, it’s been an uneventful first half-hour, and he can feel someone staring at him. Usually, he can ignore it, but it hasn’t been overly busy. He supposes that at some point, he should turn around and ask if he can help whoever is trying to drill a hole into the back of his skull with their eyes, but it can be so _tiring_ , and anyway, he’s got the other staff members around, and the fact that none of them seemed to have noticed…  
  
He’d give it a few more minutes before he investigates, Hanamaki thinks. He reaches up for a large pile of askew folded jeans on one of the higher shelves (it’s what he gets for being the tallest staff member in the store—he’s the resident shelf-reacher) and begins to pull them down, when—  
  
“Excuse m—”  
  
Hanamaki yelps and jumps about a mile at the deep voice behind him, and the jeans come tumbling down on him.  
  
“ _Shit_ , I’m so sorry, I should’ve waited for you to finish—” says the other guy awkwardly, swooping down to help Hanamaki pick up the jeans.  
  
“No, no, it’s okay, sorry about that—” says Hanamaki, because he’s worked in retail for way too long, and apologising for this kind of crap has become a bit automatic for him. “Don’t worry about it, please leave that to me—”  
  
“No, I caused you to—”  
  
“Please, don’t worry, it’s part of my job—”  
  
Hanamaki manages to haphazardly re-gather the pile of jeans in his arms in one sweep, and stands up. He and the other guy, who has also stood, face each other, and Hanamaki notes that the other guy is even taller than he is, and very briefly entertains the idea-slash-likely-fact that Awkward Tall Guy is probably also a resident shelf-reacher. Hanamaki is also not energetic enough for this. He forces a smile.  
  
“Sir, if you need any help, please feel free to approach any other members of the store, and they will _happily_ assist you. Please excuse me.”  
  
“I’m—” Awkward Tall Guy begins.  
  
But with a short, curt bow, Hanamaki hurries off towards the storage room at the back of the shop, where he unceremoniously dumps the armful of jeans onto a table and sighs. Usually he’s more polite than that, but he doesn’t appreciate being startled, and he was holding an _armful of jeans._ That, and, he apparently has a tendency to be more casual towards customers his age. Oikawa says it’s because Hanamaki thinks he can get away with it because people their age don’t expect as much courtesy; Iwaizumi says Hanamaki’s just an asshole, but what does Iwaizumi know?  
  
Anyway.  
  
Hanamaki quickly steams out the wrinkles in the jeans and re-folds them with a swift precision gained only from the hours he’s worked here, and heads out to re-shelf them, lest anyone comes into their store at midday in desperate need of a pair of men’s grey 34-inch ultra stretch skinny fits. While he’s out, he points a customer towards the section of scarves and beanies, neatens the display of jumpers, and then heads behind the counter to do some paperwork he had forgotten about on one of the empty cashiers.  
  
Someone approaches his cashier. He looks up, ready to semi-politely-depending-on-their-age-range tell the customer that the cashier wasn’t open, when he realises it’s Awkward Tall Guy. Hanamaki has half a mind to throw something at him, but he supposes that isn’t—  
  
“I’m really sorry to bother you, but can I please paint you?” Awkward Tall Guy blurts out.  
  
There is a stunned silence.  
  
Hanamaki has his eyebrows raised in bewilderment as he slowly reaches under the table for something to throw after all—he vaguely remembers a stapler down there somewhere—and it takes Awkward Tall Guy a little too long to realise what he just said.  
  
“I mean,” he says, “I’m—I—oh, jeez, let me try again—” His hand dives into his bag and he fishes around for a moment before pulling out a small card, which he hands to Hanamaki. It’s a hand-cut piece of textured card with vibrant, hand-painted red and orange maple leaves cascading down the right, and _Matsukawa Issei, Artist_ neatly handwritten on the left in black ink, along with his phone number, email address, and the username of his blog.  
  
“I’m an artist,” says Awkward Tall Guy— _Matsukawa_. “My name’s Matsukawa—I mean, it says so right there, but, uh, I paint. I mainly work with watercolour and gouache paints, and there’s an exhibition coming up that I’m _really_ hoping to take part in and I think you’d be the perfect model for a painting, so I’m—”  
  
”Hold up,” says Hanamaki abruptly, now dropping all forms of retail politeness because _what the fuck,_ and Matsukawa’s spiel stops. “I literally just met you, dude.”  
  
“Oh.” Matsukawa winces. “Right. Yeah.”  
  
“And I have no interest in being a model for your painting.”  
  
“That’s…” Matsukawa winces again and ducks his head. “Fair.”  
  
Hanamaki can feel himself deflating slightly. “Okay. Wait. Wait,” he says, rubbing his eye. “Okay, I guess that was unnecessarily harsh…”  
  
“No, no, I mean,” says Matsukawa, “I _did_ make you drop that stack of jeans, so… I’m sorry about that…”  
  
“It’s fine, I’ve had worse,” says Hanamaki. “Look, why would you think I’d be a good model, anyway?”  
  
For a moment, Matsukawa looks like he’s struggling for an answer. “I… can’t really explain.”  
  
“Were you the one staring at me for twenty minutes before you came up to me?”  
  
A blush flares in Matsukawa’s cheeks, and he has the grace to look like a deer caught in headlights.  
  
“Okay,” says Hanamaki.  
  
“I’m sorry,” says Matsukawa, a half-whispers. He really does look sorry. “I was walking by and I saw you, and I stopped to observe, but… yeah, I can definitely understand why that’d be creepy.” He takes a deep breath, nods, and his shoulders sag, and somehow, he looks calmer—disappointed, but calmer. Hanamaki supposes it’s because of the realisation that there really was no getting out of this situation.  
  
Matsukawa bows, to Hanamaki’s surprise, and says, “I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused. Thank you for your time.”  
  
And as he straightens up, he nods once more to Hanamaki, before turning and quickly leaving the store. Hanamaki stares after him, feeling winded, but mostly just very confused.  
  
“Oooh, _Hanamaki-san_ ,” one of the junior staff members teases, sliding over and grinning widely. “I wonder if he—”  
  
“ _Back to work, please_ ,” says Hanamaki waspishly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
Hanamaki pushes the Awkward Tall Guy Incident to the back of his mind—or, he tries to, but half his co-workers occasionally breaking out into giggles around him _really_ doesn’t help. It continues throughout the week, and Hanamaki’s light scoldings have done nothing to curb them, because all his co-workers know that though he can be a little cranky and curt at times, that’s about the worst of it. Everyone gets along at their store, and Hanamaki just doesn’t have the heart to kick them down when they’re having fun, even if it is at his expense.  
  
Friday seems to crawl by at a disrespectfully slow pace, Hanamaki notices as he closes the store for the day. With a sigh, he adjusts his bag and starts to head home, quickly finding that his usual route is blocked off by fresh construction work. Hanamaki pulls a face at it and detours down another road that he vaguely recalls has a Lawson convenience store somewhere, because if anyone deserves a sickeningly sweet strawberry Calpis drink, he thinks he does.  
  
And _naturally_ , a Lawson staff member is crouched by the Calpis section of the drinks fridge and is restocking it, and it looks like he’s just started. Hanamaki tries not to sulk; he supposes it wouldn’t hurt to wait a few more minutes, but—  
  
“Good evening, can I help you with—”  
  
Hanamaki locks eyes with the staff member when he looks up, and they both freeze.  
  
It’s Awkward Tall Guy— _Matsukawa_ —from Monday, wearing the staff uniform of the Lawson store. He has that deer-caught-in-headlights look on his face, holding a bottle of Calpis in each hand as he and Hanamaki continue staring at each other. The tips of Matsukawa’s ears begin to turn bright red.  
  
“Strawberry,” Hanamaki manages to choke out. “Please.”  
  
“Uh.” Matsukawa looks down at the box of Calpis bottles beside him and seems to suddenly remember where they both are right now. “Oh. Right. Sure. They aren’t refrigerated yet, though. Is that okay?”  
  
“Yes. Fine. Sure. Perfect.”  
  
“Here you go.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
Matsukawa looks like he wants to say something else, and Hanamaki is torn between power-walking away, and hanging back a little. He glances at the juice section of the fridge, remembers Iwaizumi had mentioned running out of orange juice yesterday, and pulls out the largest bottle with the most colourful label. He doesn’t even remember which brand Iwaizumi prefers, but honestly, Iwaizumi can suck it up. Juice is juice.  
  
“Um, hey?” Matsukawa begins, and Hanamaki looks at him in surprise.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I just… I wanted to properly apologise for last time.” Matsukawa’s voice is quiet, loud enough for only Hanamaki to hear. “I didn’t handle that well at all, and I obviously made you really uncomfortable, so… I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t ruin your day too much.”  
  
There’s a sincerity in his apology that seems to take the awkwardness out of the atmosphere. Hanamaki actually feels the tension escape his shoulders a little.  
  
“Oh. It’s okay. I didn’t think too much of it,” he answers. He holds himself back from adding, _actually, most of my co-workers are hoping you’ll come back; they’ve been very distracted and unproductive._  
  
Matsukawa gives him a faint smile and nods with something like a touch of gratitude.  
  
“Thanks,” he says. “Um, anyway, I’ve got to…” He gestures to the box of Calpis.  
  
“Oh, right.” Hanamaki nods. “Bye, then.”  
  
“Bye.”  
  
And with that, Hanamaki heads to the counter, and Matsukawa returns to his restocking.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
The next week is great. Hanamaki’s co-workers bring up the Awkward Tall Guy incident less and less as the days plod by; Iwaizumi actually likes the orange juice Hanamaki had bought; the construction work along his usual route to and from work has finished up, and he doesn’t have to detour anymore. Things are peaceful again.  
  
Which is more than he can say about the market.  
  
Hanamaki sighs as he continuously gets jostled by tiny but fierce old ladies and overly sassy old men, each on their way to buy the day’s freshest meats and vegetables and not bothered by who they run over with their trolleys. Personally, Hanamaki thinks that no pumpkin in the world is worth all this, but he knows better than to pick a fight with someone three times his age—he’d lose in a heartbeat.  
  
He detours to the outskirts of the market for a breather, a short way from all the wet markets and grocery stalls and scary old people, where there are a bunch of craft stalls and some clothing joints and various other trinkets. His gaze falls to a table with several small, colourful paintings, and—  
  
Matsukawa Issei, stunned, is staring back at him from behind his table, because _of course_ he is, _of course_ they would run into each other again like this, _of course_ life is weird that way. Matsukawa raises a hand in a small, uncertain wave.  
  
Ah, what the heck, thinks Hanamaki. A hello probably wouldn’t hurt—he didn’t seem like a bad guy. And maybe if Hanamaki took his time, there’d be less old people in the wet markets.  
  
Hanamaki walks towards him, taking note of the way Matsukawa’s face lights up slightly in relief that he hasn’t scared him off.  
  
“Hey,” Hanamaki offers first.  
  
“Hey,” Matsukawa answers. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”  
  
“Yeah, well… it’s my turn to make dinner for me and my housemates tonight,” Hanamaki explains with a shrug. “Usually I just shop at the supermarket, but everyone keeps telling me I can get cheaper and fresher food here, so I caved. It’s peer pressure.” He looks around at all the paintings surrounding Matsukawa, depicting landscapes, cityscapes, charming house interiors, flowers, animals, and small portraits of people. “Are these all yours?”  
  
“Yeah,” says Matsukawa. There’s a ruefulness in his voice. “I need the money, so I try painting and selling these when I’m not at work.”  
  
“They’re nice,” says Hanamaki, leaning down to have a better look at the ones closest to him. “You use a lot of colours and little details. They’re fun to look at.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“How often do you paint, then?” Hanamaki can’t help it; curiosity’s gotten the better of him.  
  
“As often as I can,” says Matsukawa. “I’ve got a part-time job at an art supply store about fifteen minutes walk from here, and—you saw me—I work part-time at Lawson, so I don’t have _a lot_ of time to paint, but it’s okay. I have Sunday morning and early afternoon free, so I’m here once a week, but after this, I’m back at Lawson.”  
  
“You’re an artist, working in an art store? That’s handy.”  
  
Matsukawa grins a little. “I’m lucky the owners really like me.”  
  
Two young women approach the stall, and after a handful of minutes of deciding and asking Matsukawa a few questions, they buy a small painting each, and walk away, arm-in-arm.  
  
“Hey,” says Matsukawa as they watch them leave, “can I ask you something?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“When I asked you to be my model for my painting, and you said no… can I ask why not?”  
  
Hanamaki regards him for a moment, pursing his lips together in a manner more thoughtful than annoyed.  
  
“A few years ago, I used to work at a semi-fancy restaurant a few train stops away from here,” Hanamaki explains. “Some uni kid managed to take a photo of me when I accidentally dropped a bunch of ingredients I was bringing into the restaurant, and then he put it up as one of the pieces in his photography collection for his uni’s end-of-year showcase gallery. I was in uniform and everything. You could see half the restaurant’s shopfront.  
  
“The title of his work was ‘ _Klutz_ ’,” Hanamaki continues. “He took a bunch of spontaneous photos of accidents and people messing up things, and that was his art, apparently. My then-boss went to see the exhibition, saw my photo, and then fired me the next day for, quote, _being an embarrassment to the restaurant_.”  
  
Matsukawa cringes. “Damn.”  
  
“Yeah, that was not a good time. I was still in uni myself, and I really needed the money, so it wasn’t helpful.” Hanamaki shrugs. “Anyway, it’s nothing personal—nothing against you, but I’d really rather not.”  
  
There’s a flicker of disappointment on Matsukawa’s face, but he nods in understanding. “Thanks for telling me. I’m sorry that happened to you.”  
  
“Nah, it’s okay. That boss was an asshole, anyway. I’ve seen him twice at Uniqlo, and he doesn’t even recognise me. Anyway, enough about me, what about you? What’s this… exhibition you mentioned?”  
  
“Oh, that’s… there’s a group of artists based in the city called the Sendai Collective,” Matsukawa explains. “They’re one of the biggest art groups in Japan. Twice a year, they host an art exhibition that anyone can apply for, and they’ll select the best pieces to host, and then make a competition out of them. The winners from the competition are almost always invited to join the Collective, and that’s what I’m aiming for—but even without that, just being featured there would be a really good way to help get my art out there. A member saw some photos of my paintings from my blog and told me about the exhibition. I’ve been trying ever since.”  
  
“How long ago was that?”  
  
“About three years ago,” Matsukawa answers with a sigh. “I’ve submitted works for six of their exhibitions over that time, but none of them ever made it. I’ve never really… never really had the right inspiration, I guess.”  
  
Hanamaki gives a snort of laughter. “So I was your inspiration?”  
  
“Well.” Matsukawa’s lips quirk into a small, embarrassed smile. “Yeah.”  
  
“Aren’t there other art groups around the city that you could apply for?”  
  
“There are,” says Matsukawa. “I’ve had a look at others, but none of them really grab me like this one has. Or maybe, since I’ve been trying specifically for this one for a while, I’ve become too stubborn to go anywhere else. I don’t really know anymore.” Hanamaki huffs another laugh.  
  
After an older couple stops by to purchase a painting of colourful flowers, Matsukawa asks him, “What about you, what do you do, aside from work at Uniqlo?”  
  
“Nothing,” says Hanamaki simply. “I just work as the assistant store manager at my store. Sometimes I help out at the other stores, but I’m there the most.”  
  
Matsukawa folds his arms on his table and leans forward a little. “That’s all? I mean, Uniqlo seems pretty neat, but…”  
  
Hanamak shrugs and says, “I just go with the flow.”  
  
“Did you go to uni?”  
  
“I did. Never graduated, though.”  
  
At this, Matsukawa raises his eyebrows and tilts his chin up, as if to say _go on_. Hanamaki smiles dryly.  
  
“I wanted to be a teacher, for senior high or junior high science—biology and chemistry. I studied teaching for two years, but then I started to lose my focus. I wasn’t enjoying it anymore, so I dropped out. And now I’m here, not doing much.”  
  
“How long ago was that?” asks Matsukawa.  
  
“It’s been… about three years since I left, I think?”  
  
There’s a pause, and they look at each other and share a mystified sort of smile. _About three years_ for them both.  
  
“Do you think you’ll ever go back?” Matsukawa asks.  
  
Hanamaki just shrugs, non-committal. “Who knows? What about you, did you study art at uni or something?”  
  
“Yeeaahh, my parents sent me to art school.”  
  
“That did not sound like a happy sentence.”  
  
“Well. They tried to be supportive. They knew from the start I wasn’t interested in science and maths and all that, even if they did prefer that I was. They were fine with me going to art school, but ever since I graduated, I still haven’t really found my way, and they… worry about me. They keep dropping hints that I should to find something else—something unrelated to art.”  
  
“And have you thought about it?” Hanamaki asks before he can stop himself.  
  
Matsukawa looks down at his paintings and shrugs. “Sometimes. Never for long, but sometimes. But I just can’t see myself doing anything else. I’m really not sure what’s _stubbornness_ and what’s _following a dream_ anymore.”  
  
“Maybe they’re the same thing. But that’s okay, isn’t it?”  
  
A faint smile crosses Matsukawa’s face. “Maybe.”  
  
A mother and her two small children come over to have a look at the stall, and the children _ooh_ and _ahh_ and point at the paintings, but the group ultimately leave without buying anything.  
  
“Sorry,” says Matsukawa suddenly, “I’ve kept you here a long time. Did you have anywhere you needed to be?”  
  
Hanamaki checks his watch and makes a face; it’s only been less than half an hour. He doubts the Sunday morning scary oldies are done. Matsukawa laughs when Hanamaki tells him this.  
  
“You get used to them, after a while. Some of them are really sweet.”  
  
“Not enough of them.” Hanamaki shakes his head. “I should go. Any recommendations on where to get fish?”  
  
“Hmm… I usually buy from Fujita-san’s stall over on the north side, they usually have pretty good deals and fresh fish.”  
  
“What about beef?”  
  
“Maruyama-san’s quality is good, but a bit pricier. Otherwise, the one a few stalls down with the… the light blue sign? They usually have the cheapest prices in the market, but their quality tends to vary.”  
  
“Ahh, you’ve saved me; thank you.”  
  
“I’ve been here a while,” says Matsukawa with a grin. “If you need advice, let me know.”  
  
“I will keep that in mind. I gonna start heading to war now.”  
  
“Good luck, brave warrior.” Matsukawa salutes him. “Come back in one piece.”  
  
“I’ll see you around, maybe?”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
“Maybe,” Hanamaki echoes. And with a wave and a smile, he leaves.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
Because, again, life is weird that way, it becomes a weekly thing: Hanamaki going to the market on Sunday morning, getting jostled by scary old people, swinging by Matsukawa’s stall, and complaining about it and/or making conversation. It even gets to a comfortable point where Hanamaki occasionally brings him a cream puff from one of the bakeries nearby.  
  
“Don’t you ever buy anything other than cream puffs?” says Matsukawa, smiling as Hanamaki hands him a small paper bag one Sunday morning.  
  
“There are things other than cream puffs?”  
  
“My bad. Thanks, by the way.”  
  
“No problem. Any advice on the day’s specials?”  
  
“Hmm… Jin-san’s stall’s entire stock of pork looks good today, if you feel like having pork. The chicken there is cheap, too, and looks decent. The vegetable stall on the east side with the red and white sign, near the 7-11? Everything looks pretty good there. But I heard some old ladies complain about the seafood not looking too great today, so there’s that.”  
  
“Thanks,” says Hanamaki with a grin.  
  
“I feel like this is a weird trade, don’t you? A cream puff, for information.”  
  
Hanamaki gives a mock-scandalised gasp. “Are you asking for a higher price, _Matsukawa-kun?_ ”  
  
“Can’t you bring me a hamburg steak? The kind with melted cheese inside?”  
  
“I’ll keep that in mind for future negotiations.”  
  
Matsukawa is easy to talk to, Hanamaki finds, once they’ve both gotten over the initial awkward stages, and can exchange good-natured quips with each other. He’s curious about everything, always has good recommendations on where to buy such-and-so ingredient, and doesn’t seem to have a mean bone in his body. It all makes the Sunday mornings a bit more bearable. Hanamaki thinks they’re even starting to be something like _friends_.  
  
“Do you live nearby?” Matsukawa asks through a bite of the cream puff.  
  
“About fifteen-ish minutes walk from here,” Hanamaki answers. “You?”  
  
“Two train stations away. I rent a small apartment by myself.”  
  
“That sounds like paradise. I live with two housemates, and I love them both, but sometimes…” Hanamaki mimes crushing something between his hands.  
  
Matsukawa smiles. “I guess it has its perks. Sometimes it gets a bit _too_ quiet, though.”  
  
“You haven’t had housemates before?”  
  
“No. I’ve only ever lived with my parents, and at my current place, but my place is too small and I have too many art supplies and stuff.”  
  
“Seriously, enjoy the peace while you can. If you _really_ want to know what my nightmare friends are like, I’ll introduce you. Put you off having housemates for life. You’ll thank me.” But the way Hanamaki’s grinning as Matsukawa laughs says he doesn’t _completely_ mean it.  
  
“I guess we’ll see,” says Matsukawa.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
Hanamaki does consider introducing them. He thinks Matsukawa would get along with Oikawa and Iwaizumi, and honestly, those two talk to other people so easily, it probably wouldn’t be a problem. The more he thinks about it, the more it seems like a good idea. He makes up his mind.  
  
“Oi, you two,” says Hanamaki on Friday morning, right before the three of them split off to head to their respective jobs. “Are you guys both free tomorrow for dinner? I was thinking of having shabu-shabu at home.”  
  
“ _Hell yes!_ ” they cheer in perfect unison.  
  
“Okay. I’ll buy the ingredients from the market,” says Hanamaki. “Also, I want to bring a friend along; I think it’ll be good for him to meet you guys.”  
  
“You have friends aside from us?” Iwaizumi snarks, and Hanamaki mimes throwing his shoe at him.  
  
“If I bury you in a shallow grave, I’ll have one less,” he deadpans.  
  
“ _Makki! Iwa-chan!_ ” Oikawa protests. “How do you two get through work with so few customer complaints? Get out of here, you’re ruining the good harmonies of our home!”  
  
“Byeeeee,” Hanamaki and Iwaizumi drone, and the three leave the apartment.  
  
It’s an ordinary Friday at Uniqlo. After politely and slightly passive-aggressively dealing with an irate customer who insisted they bring out a very particular shade of light blue that had never actually ever been available from their line of extra fine merino crew neck sweaters, Hanamaki takes his lunch break and heads to the nearby Lawson, where he spots Matsukawa re-arranging the magazine stand towards the back of the store.  
  
“So, for dinner tomorrow,” Hanamaki says in lieu of a hello, to which Matsukawa, not even surprised, just looks up at him, “my housemates and I are going to have shabu-shabu at home. Feel like joining us, if you’re free?”  
  
“Tomorrow? I’m free, but… are you sure?”  
  
“No, of course not, I just asked for shits and giggles,” Hanamaki replies with gentle sarcasm, and Matsukawa grins sheepishly.  
  
“That would be great, thanks. Should I bring anything?”  
  
“Nah, we’ve got everything covered. I’ll text you our address. What’s your number?” Hanamaki pulls out his phone and taps at it. “I don’t actually have your business card anymore, I let one of my juniors have it; she really liked the leaves you painted, and apparently, she reads your blog, sometimes.”  
  
“Oh, man.”  
  
“Nice huh? So, what’s your number?”  
  
“It’s…”  
  
The next evening, Matsukawa arrives at the apartment at half-past six, and Hanamaki introduces everyone.  
  
“This is Matsukawa; we, uh, met at my Uniqlo store. He’s the one with all the good advice about buying food from the market. Matsukawa, the pretty-boy here is Oikawa, and the prickly one—”  
  
“Fuck you, Hanamaki.”  
  
“—is Iwaizumi. They’re both high school friends of mine.”  
  
“Hanamaki’s told me a lot about you both,” says Matsukawa with a grin as they shake hands.  
  
“Okay, no,” says Hanamaki. “No, I have not. Go sit down or I’m kicking you out.”  
  
“What’s Makki been saying?” Oikawa asks, making a big show of elbowing Hanamaki out of the way.  
  
“Well, he’s mentioned th—”  
  
“No more slander, or I am banning you from the meat, Matsukawa.”  
  
Matsukawa shrugs and grins apologetically. “And there you have it.”  
  
“Spoilsport,” says Iwaizumi, jostling Hanamaki.  
  
Dinner is delicious, with almost everything bought from the market. Oikawa’s own recipe ponzu sauce is the perfect level of tanginess, and Iwaizumi has bought several cans of good beer for the night. They talk and laugh and poke good-natured fun at Hanamaki, and Hanamaki can’t help noticing how relaxed and comfortable Matsukawa looks; he’d been right about Oikawa and Iwaizumi being good at conversation.  
  
Eventually, with most of the food gone and just two cans of unopened beer left, Matsukawa pulls out a sketchbook from his bag and asks to draw Oikawa’s and Iwaizumi’s portraits for practise, to which they happily agree.  
  
They pick at the rest of the food and ask questions as Matsukawa sketches—about the exhibition he had been hoping to take part in, about his art school, how long he’d been practising different art forms for. All the while, Matsukawa’s eyes dart attentively from his sketchbook to their faces, the sound of his graphite pencil scratching softly against the paper mingled with their conversations. Hanamaki mostly just listens as he watches Oikawa’s and Iwaizumi’s faces take form before him; the sketches are neither overly detailed nor overly simple, but they have life and warmth to them.  
  
“I can’t believe it…” Oikawa breathes as Matsukawa shows them the finished sketches. “You actually made Iwa-chan look good—ow! _Oww!_ ”  
  
“You walked _right_ into that one,” Hanamaki drawls as Iwaizumi seizes Oikawa in a headlock.  
  
“I want to say something like ‘thanks for making Oikawa look like a turd’, but that’s an insult to your work, and also a complete lie,” says Iwaizumi, looking at Matsukawa mildly as Oikawa struggles. “You’ve put me in a hard spot, man. But you’ve got a real talent for this.”  
  
“Thank y—”  
  
“ _Iwa-chan! Let go of me, you gorilla!_ ” Oikawa yelps from under his arm, and with a loud sigh, Iwaizumi does so. Matsukawa grins.  
  
“So… how long have you two been dating for?” he asks, nodding at them.  
  
At this, he is met with a silence that seems to stretch the entire apartment building. Oikawa and Iwaizumi stare at him for what feels like an age, before slowly turning to look at each other, stunned.  
  
Hanamaki chokes on the last of his beer as he begins to laugh.  
  
The next minute is eventful: Iwaizumi and Oikawa spend a handful more seconds staring at each other with wide eyes and increasingly red faces that have absolutely nothing to do with the beer, before Oikawa springs up from the table and rushes for the front door, which he throws open, and he runs outside, still wearing his house slippers; Iwaizumi dashes after him, slams into the doorframe along the way, and shouts Oikawa’s name and for him to _stop running you dumbass, get back here!_ ; Hanamaki is cackling so hard that he’s crying as he shuts the front door again; Matsukawa looks mortified.  
  
“They weren’t dating?! _I thought they were dating!_ ” he hisses to Hanamaki, who is wiping tears from his eyes as he sits back down.  
  
“Everyone thinks so too,” Hanamaki wheezes. “Everyone except them! Oh, man, their expressions were _priceless_. Can you sketch that? I want to remember this!”  
  
“ _What have I done?_ Should I run after them and apologise?”  
  
“ _Hell no!_ ”  
  
“But—”  
  
“It’s okay. Trust me, they’ll be fine,” says Hanamaki, still smiling as he pops open another can of beer and passes it to Matsukawa. “I’ve known those dumbasses for _years_ , I know how they work. This is a good thing for them.”  
  
“Really?” says Matsukawa dubiously.  
  
“Really. Literally _everyone_ who’s friends with them has been nudging them for years, but those two are dense as _shit_ and still haven’t taken the bait until now. It’s about time someone just straight-up shoved them over the edge. Wish I’d done that earlier…” With an amused hum, Hanamaki opens the last can of beer for himself. “I’ve got to treat you to lunch or something, as thanks.”  
  
“Holy shit.”  
  
“Hey, if you don’t mind, can we keep the sketches of Oikawa and Iwaizumi? Is that okay?”  
  
“Oh… yeah, sure,” says Matsukawa, still dazed. He picks up his sketchbook again and begins to carefully tear the two sketches out. “I’m still… yeah, I can see what you mean.”  
  
“No peace,” says Hanamaki fondly. “Never a dull moment with those two.”  
  
Shaking his head, Matsukawa hands him the sketches.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
The next morning, Hanamaki’s at the market again, telling Matsukawa all about what happened after he had left. Oikawa and Iwaizumi had taken well over an hour to return home, and during that time, Matsukawa had helped Hanamaki clean up the bowls, cutlery, and trash from their dinner, and then headed home himself, as he had to prepare for his Sunday market stall as usual.  
  
“So they’re a couple, now?” says Matsukawa, grinning. Hanamaki is slightly hunched over, leaning against his table for support, and wiping tears of with laughter from his eyes.  
  
“Iwaizumi had to chase Oikawa down something like four blocks before he would stop running. They’ve been tiptoeing around each other for _years_ , so they had a lot to talk about, but it was worth it in the end.” Hanamaki gives a happy sigh. “Bless those dumbasses.”  
  
“I’m glad it worked out. I was getting worried I had ruined their lives or something.”  
  
“What? No!” Hanamaki scoffs. “Like I said, you basically did what we all should’ve done much earlier. It was _masterful_ , so thank you.”  
  
“You’re… welcome?”  
  
“Before I left the house today, I told them I would tell you that they said thanks. Iwaizumi told me to go stick my head into a fruit juicer.”  
  
“Uh…”  
  
Hanamaki beams. “He was blushing. Oikawa was holding his hand. We don’t own a fruit juicer.”  
  
“I’ve never seen someone so happy to see their friends get together.”  
  
“Trust me, if you’ve known them for as long as I have, you’d be happy too. Oh! They _did_ say thank you for the sketches, though; they really loved them. They want to buy frames for them and display them somewhere.”  
  
“But those were just rough sketches,” Matsukawa protests. “Do they want me to re-draw them? I can colour them.”  
  
“Nah, save your effort. These ones are special, they have _history_ to them.” Hanamaki waves a hand at him. “Anyway, Oikawa wants to tell you that you’re welcome to come over for dinner next weekend, if you’d like.”  
  
“Will Iwaizumi tell me to stick my head into a fruit juicer, too?”  
  
“Nope, that’s a luxury reserved only for me.” Hanamaki grins when Matsukawa snorts. “I’ll remind you towards the end of the week.”  
  
“Thanks…”  
  
“Anyway, I’m gonna go buy groceries. Wish me luck.”  
  
“Good luck. Oh! Actually, I forgot to ask you yesterday, but I was wondering if you’re free later this afternoon?”  
  
“Oh, sure, I have Sundays off work, but aren’t you at Lawson?”  
  
“I swapped shifts with a co-worker,” says Matsukawa. “There’s a gallery near the station with a small oil painting exhibition on that I’ve been meaning to have a look at. So, I was thinking… if you’ve got time, you could come with me?”  
  
Hanamaki thinks for a moment, and then shrugs and nods. “Sounds good. I know nothing about art stuff though, so don’t expect any good commentary from me. Can you text me the address? I’ll drop off my groceries at home and meet you there.”  
  
Matsukawa smiles. “Sure.”  
  
“Then, I’ll see you soon.”  
  
“Take care. Maruyama’s stall has some good specials going on, so the old people are probably going to be extra vicious today.”  
  
“Yay,” says Hanamaki, so deadpan that Matsukawa laughs. “If I can live through this, I can get through anything.”  
  
And with a playful salute, Hanamaki heads into his weekly battle with the elderly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
“Oh, you’re still alive,” Matsukawa greets him when they meet outside the art gallery about two hours later.  
  
“Arguably,” says Hanamaki tiredly. “I’m pretty sure at least half the old ladies are actually judo black belts. It was terrifying. Maruyama-san’s son looked like he felt really sorry for me.”  
  
“Ah, yes,” says Matsukawa as they walk inside. “He understands. He’s too nice for his own good, plus he’s about our age, so the old people keep trying to haggle, and they bully him into giving them the nicer meats. He’s too scared of them.”  
  
“He’s a brave man, that Maruyama junior.”  
  
“A good, brave man.”  
  
“So this is…” Hanamaki looks around thoughtfully.  
  
“An exhibition by an art group made up of alumni from the Tohoku University of Art and Design, who are currently living in Sendai,” says Matsukawa, looking at a brochure he had taken from a stand by the door. He passes it to Hanamaki. “The theme is _nostalgia for the future_ … also the name of the exhibition.”  
  
The gallery houses two large rooms, both of which are fairly dim-lit, with individual spotlights shining softly over the two dozen or so oil painting pieces, each of varying sizes. Hanamaki, a little lost, follows Matsukawa. Their footsteps echo no matter how quietly he tries to walk, but the small number of visitors also at the exhibition don’t pay him any attention, and simply talk amongst themselves.  
  
“Have you ever had your works in a gallery before?” Hanamaki asks.  
  
“Just once, for my university’s end-of-year exhibition,” says Matsukawa ruefully. “We all had to submit something. Mine wasn’t a good piece, though, and I’m not even being modest. I tried too hard to be edgy and deep. It was a mess.”  
  
They walk around the first room in silence for a while, just observing. There’s something peaceful about the gallery and looking at the paintings, some of which were more abstract than others, some of which Hanamaki had no idea what the subject was meant to be, but could let himself enjoy them anyway.  
  
“Are you thinking about…” Matsukawa begins.  
  
Hanamaki looks at him. “Hm?”  
  
“The guy who took that photo of you.”  
  
“Oh… I wasn’t, until now.”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“It’s fine. Like I said, my boss was an asshole, and Uniqlo is a hundred times better. It actually doesn’t bother me as much as it used to.” He pauses and gives a thoughtful hum. “Would that really be considered art, though? Taking photos of people like that? It seems a bit… lazy. I would’ve thought stuff like this would be considered proper art.” He nods at the oil paintings surrounding them.  
  
“Well, I mean… photography is another branch of art,” says Matsukawa slowly. “But the thing with _art_ in general is that it doesn’t really have a set definition outside of a dictionary. I’m going to sound pretentious as shit, but art can be _anything_ and _everything_ , you know? People have been debating what is and isn’t art for centuries. It’s not necessarily just a pretty thing for people to look at, and _intention_ plays a big part in it as well. Art usually has a message, and it’s usually made to provoke all sorts of emotions. But because of that, sometimes it can… hurt.” He pauses. “That said, I think he needed to have gotten your permission to publicly showcase your photo, but I’m not sure. I don’t really deal with photography.”  
  
Hanamaki snorts, and smiles despite himself. “It’s fine, really.” When Matsukawa gives him a skeptical look, Hanamaki gestures to the painting they had moved in front of and says, “What do you think of this one?”  
  
“Subtle.”  
  
“Is it?”  
  
“I meant your change of topic.”  
  
“Sarcasm _really_ doesn’t suit you, you know. But if it makes you feel any better, I _can_ hunt down that guy and sue him. I probably have the grounds to, and it’d be very therapeutic.” Matsukawa fights back a laugh, now looking less worried, and Hanamaki adds, “And I can use the money to buy Oikawa and Iwaizumi anniversary presents.”  
  
“Like a fruit juicer?”  
  
“ _Hey, now_.”  
  
They nudge each other, trying to keep their snickers down around the gallery attendees who are politely ignoring them.  
  
“This painting,” Matsukawa murmurs, and Hanamaki turns to look back at it, “uses a lot of movement, but the subject—the guy in the foreground—is standing still, and it sort of feels like the future is moving too fast for him to keep up with. The colours are bright, and the way they wash him out a little—”  
  
Hanamaki listens mostly, occasionally giving his own input as they move through each painting, sometimes looking on in silence, sometimes moving ahead of the other, but always catching up again.  
  
“I like this one,” Hanamaki says a few minutes later, gesturing to a large, vivid painting near one of the corners, depicting an aqua vintage car with a broken headlight, from which stalks of lavender are sprouting, and half a dozen bees, painted in loving detail, are collecting pollen. “I like the colours, and bees are always good. The details here are _amazing_.”  
  
“I thought you were a chemistry nerd,” says Matsukawa.  
  
“Chemistry _and_ biology,” Hanamaki corrects him. “Biology a bit more than chemistry, but I am a nerd with a wide field of interests. And even if I wasn’t, bees are very important and hard-working creatures that deserve attention, and they are essential to the survival of the human race.”  
  
“Isn’t there an exhibition on at the Science Museum about bees?” asks Matsukawa. “Something about th… nope, I don’t remember, but I saw posters.”  
  
“Oh… yeah, bees and conservation methods, and other insects beneficial to agriculture,” says Hanamaki. “Yeah, I know; it opens next month.”  
  
Matsukawa gives him a funny look. “Did you want to go see it? If it interests you?”  
  
“We can, if you like,” says Hanamaki, now with a non-committal shrug.  
  
“I’m interested,” says Matsukawa. “You might even say that I, too, am a nerd with a wide field of interests. We could trade: I could drag you out to art galleries, you could take me science things.”  
  
“There aren’t a lot of science things on that often.”  
  
“Still.”  
  
Hanamaki chances a look at him; Matsukawa raises his eyebrows at him hopefully.  
  
“Okay, okay,” says Hanamaki with a small smile. “I’ll have a look at what there is and let you know.”  
  
“Sounds like a fair trade.”  
  
“Good doing business with you.”  
  
And with that, they continue on.  
  
It’s towards the end of their trail through the gallery when Hanamaki catches up again with Matsukawa, who has stopped in front of a canvas and has been staring at it for a long time. It’s a painting of a lit-up cityscape underwater, its buildings slightly abstract and painted with what looks like dry brush strokes, surrounded by a soft turquoise-to-navy gradient for the water, and with a single detailed comet goldfish swimming beside the city, giant and looming.  
  
It’s a lovely piece, but it’s not the artwork that gets Hanamaki’s attention; it’s the look on Matsukawa’s face that he finds hard to tear his eyes away from. It’s a look of something like _home_ , of _familiarity_ —  
  
“I like this piece,” Matsukawa says to him, not looking away from the painting. “It’s really calming, and kind of feels like I’m standing right inside it.”  
  
—of _longing_.  
  
Now that Hanamaki thinks about it, that look has been present ever since they arrived at the gallery, but it seems most obvious as they stand here, in front of this painting—the first one Matsukawa had declared he liked, even though Hanamaki thinks he probably felt moved by them all.  
  
He nudges Matsukawa, who starts.  
  
“This’ll be you, someday,” says Hanamaki. “You, in an art exhibition. You know that right?”  
  
Matsukawa just gives a little laugh and looks back up at the piece, smiling wistfully. He doesn’t reply, and Hanamaki knows he’s hit home.  
  
He nudges Matsukawa once more and walks on ahead to look at the last few paintings. When Matsukawa catches up with him a few minutes later, they quietly leave the gallery together.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
The following week, when they both have an afternoon of free time, Matsukawa takes Hanamaki to another smaller gallery, to see an exhibition featuring various sculptures by a local artist who had been slowly making a name for herself, and was a newer member of the Sendai Collective. Her works are a bit too abstract for Hanamaki’s tastes, but he enjoys the playful colour schemes she had used; Matsukawa doesn’t have much commentary to offer either, but he looks relaxed here. More than once, Hanamaki catches that look of longing on his face again (feels it hit him in the chest, though he tries not to think about it too much), up until they are done, and they take their leave. Without much else to do, Matsukawa invites Hanamaki over to his apartment for a break.  
  
“It’s nice, but not _ideal_ ,” Matsukawa says as he fumbles for his keys at the front door. “Sometimes the sun is too bright and that throws off the lighting for painting. And if I leave paper out for too long, the sunlight yellows it, so I always have to stash it away. I’d like it if the lighting was a bit more neutral, but the rent is cheap, so I guess I can’t complain too much.”  
  
“It’s cosy,” says Hanamaki appreciatively when they enter.  
  
“Cramped,” says Matsukawa with a dry smile.  
  
He’s kind of right. In the living room, there’s a large desk that’s covered with several art supplies and an old laptop, a wooden stool, a bookshelf filled with books and folios, a large plastic drawer with six drawer boxes, a small coffee table with a stack of art folio display binders on top of it and another stack beside it, an old couch with fabric faded by exposure to the sunlight streaming through the window, a kitchenette, and two doors that presumably lead to his bedroom, and to the bathroom and toilet.  
  
“I like it,” says Hanamaki honestly. Matsukawa just gives a sheepish shrug.  
  
“Take a seat. I can make us coffee, unless you wanted something else?”  
  
“I want a nap. That bit of sunlight looks really nice. Do you have any paintings you need to do?”  
  
“I… have a sketch for a commission I need to finish, but…”  
  
“Good. Do that.” Hanamaki makes his way to couch and promptly curls up on it. Matsukawa looks confused.  
  
“Seriously? Well, I mean, sure, but I feel like a bad host. Do you want a drink or something?”  
  
“Nope, I’m good. I have this beautiful patch of sunlight right here. ”  
  
“God, you’re like a giant house cat.”  
  
“Meow.”  
  
“Don’t ever do that again.”  
  
They both snicker, and Hanamaki closes his eyes, listening to Matsukawa shuffling around for a bit, before he hears the quiet scratching of pencil against the paper.  
  
It’s warm and comfortable, in a very different way to Hanamaki’s own apartment. Iwaizumi and Oikawa aren’t trampling around the already-crowded space, for one thing; for another thing, the sunlight brings a lovely ambience, whatever Matsukawa says. Hanamaki supposes that he, as a non-artist, couldn’t fully understand how it could be anything but pleasant, but surely even Matsukawa thought it was a little more than _nice?_  
  
Ah, well. To each their own. Hanamaki dozes off dreamlessly.  
  
When he wakes up again, something is poking his shoulder and he hears, “Hanamaki. Hey, Hanamaki.”  
  
Feeling like his eyelids weighed a tonne each, Hanamaki forces them open to see Matsukawa leaning over on his stool and gently prodding him with the end of a pencil.  
  
“Mmrrgghhh.” Hanamaki throws his arm over his face.  
  
“You really don’t get a lot of peace at home, huh?” Matsukawa muses.  
  
“Is it that obvious?” says Hanamaki dryly. He pulls himself up into a sitting position with a yawn and rubs the sleep from his eyes. “How long was I out?”  
  
“Well, I finished my sketch, so…”  
  
“You have no idea.”  
  
“I have no idea. It’s sunset, though.”  
  
“Sunset? Dinnertime.” Hanamaki nods. “Let’s get something to eat.”  
  
“How does pasta sound? I can cook us something simple.”  
  
“You keep putting yourself in my good books, Matsukawa. Can you make carbonara?”  
  
Matsukawa stands up off his stool and stretches comfortably. “I can make a _mean_ carbonara. I even have bacon.”  
  
“Luxurious. Need a hand?”  
  
“Nah, there’s not enough room. Stay put; I’ll have it ready soon.” Hanamaki gives a sleepy little cheer.  
  
It doesn’t escape him that this is the most time they’ve ever spent together in one day. As he watches Matsukawa potter around his kitchenette, he finds himself smiling with something like fondness, and thinks, it’s funny how things work out. This could be something he could get used to.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
The days crawl by. There aren’t many exciting things to happen, aside from Hanamaki and Matsukawa occasionally dragging each other out to whatever they want company for, or even simply hanging out just because they can, but this suits Hanamaki just fine. Between their jobs and weekly market meetings, they manage to figure out other times to hang out: Wednesday nights or Saturday nights usually work best, or a relaxing Sunday afternoon if Matsukawa has swapped shifts at Lawson with someone. Matsukawa comes over occasionally for dinner too, and Oikawa and Iwaizumi have welcomed him to the point of Oikawa giving him the nickname of “ _Mattsun_ ”.  
  
Oikawa and Iwaizumi are going strong and are very happy together, even if Iwaizumi does threaten to pull the fire alarm on Hanamaki while he is showering, whenever he teases them about it. They spend half their evenings together outside of their shared apartment, and Hanamaki is also able to get some much-needed peace to himself whenever they do. As much as he really does enjoy their company and loves both those dumbasses dearly, he doesn’t realise the extent of how good the quiet is for him, until three of his co-workers mention to him on separate occasions how much more relaxed he looks.  
  
Hanamaki clicks his tongue. His friends are ruining his aloof reputation.  
  
“Are you okay?” says Matsukawa, looking over his shoulder as he makes them coffee.  
  
“Uh, yeah, I just… forgot to do something,” says Hanamaki.  
  
He’s hanging out in Matsukawa’s apartment again, and they’ve just come back from a quick and cheap udon dinner. Oikawa and Iwaizumi were having a quiet night in, and, as Hanamaki had told a laughing Matsukawa, he really did not care to know whether or not they’d do anything else. He’s gotten used to Matsukawa’s apartment by now—no matter what Matsukawa says about it, he likes the cosiness, the old but comfortable couch, the faint smell of paints and other art supplies jumbled together, looking at whatever piece Matsukawa’s working on at the time, and just _Matsukawa_ being there in all his calm presence.  
  
“Are these for the market this week?” Hanamaki asks, peering over at his desk upon which are a several new paintings, more than what Matsukawa usually has, some of which are unfinished.  
  
“Yeah,” Matsukawa replies, walking over and handing Hanamaki his coffee. “I’m replacing a few works that I haven’t been able to sell for ages, ones people don’t really show interest in. I didn’t realise how old those were, so… retirement time.”  
  
“I like this one with the foxes. I like the colours.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Can I see your paintings you’ve sent to the Collective in the past?”  
  
Matsukawa chokes on his coffee.  
  
“What?” he manages to splutter after a moment of coughing. Hanamaki just nods serenely. “It—I—well, that’s…” They stare at each other for a moment, and it’s only when Hanamaki takes an obnoxiously loud sip of his coffee that Matsukawa gives a nervous huff of laughter and says, “Actually, it’d be good to get another opinion. Here—”  
  
They both set their coffees down. Matsukawa reaches from behind his desk and pulls out a large black plastic folio case, and takes out six large paintings, each in plastic pockets, and hands them to Hanamaki.  
  
“Are these in order?” Hanamaki asks, holding them gingerly.  
  
“Yeah, newest piece at the top.”  
  
Matsukawa’s first work is a view of Sendai City at dusk from one of the mountains, with dark silhouettes of leaves framing it; the second work is a vivid sunset landscape of a river and a bridge, upon which a lone figure stood, their back turned to the viewer; the third is of bright lilies and long leaves in a vase, painted so they make a frame around a young woman sleeping beside it, with her head pillowed on her arms; the fourth is of two grandparents, holding hands with their grandson; the fifth is a more abstract piece, cropped longer and slimmer than the others, with a pair of hands cupping water that spills out and cascades like smooth waterfalls, and three red dragonflies hovering around; the sixth is a high-perspective shot of a deer that is looking up at the viewer from between some cherry blossom branches.  
  
“ _Wow_ ,” says Hanamaki. Matsukawa scoffs and shakes his head.  
  
“They’re not enough,” he says.  
  
“Shh!” Hanamaki holds a hand up dramatically, and Matsukawa shushes. Hanamaki continues letting his eyes travel through each painting as he carefully flips through them over and over again.  
  
“You can definitely see that your technique has improved,” he says slowly. “Your brushstrokes and colours are a lot smoother—it feels like you applied them more… _confidently_. The way you use colours in the one with the hands and dragonflies is artsy, but not over-done, you know? Your compositions too, they have more balance in the newer ones. Like the deer one, the way you use negative space—”  
  
“So you _have_ been paying attention to my blabbering whenever I drag you to a gallery,” says Matsukawa with a pleased grin.  
  
“You have such a beautiful voice, how could I not,” Hanamaki replies in his best deadpan expression. When Matsukawa flashes peace signs at him, Hanamaki pulls a face before turning back to the paintings and saying, “I like the hands-and-dragonflies one best, and the deer. They both feel more… natural? Your older works… the subjects—”  
  
“Generic. Boring.” Matsukawa nods.  
  
“I wasn’t—” Hanamaki frowns. “Well, yeah, a little. The colours of the sunset one makes it really nice, but it seems like a really common theme in general, doesn’t it? Your newer works are more eye-catching. But, how do I say…” He stares at the hands-and-dragonflies painting, frown deepening as he struggles to put his thoughts together. “It’s like you’re… forcing it. They’re lacking _substance_. You’re sort of painting these without feeling much for them.”  
  
Matsukawa exhales, and one corner of his mouth turns up into a half-smile. “That’s what someone from the Collective told me too, after I emailed them asking for their opinion. I think you’re both right. The painting of the hands—I painted it that way because I thought it looked a bit more interesting. That’s literally it. The others aren’t far off. I told you before, I just never really had the right inspiration.” His smile widens, but he looks mostly embarrassed.  
  
“Was I too harsh?” says Hanamaki with a wince.  
  
Matsukawa shakes his head. “I asked for your opinion because I knew you could be honest about them. I really needed that.”  
  
“As long as I haven’t put you off painting for life,” says Hanamaki. He stacks the artworks together again and hands them back to Matsukawa, who slips them into the folio case and behind his desk again.  
  
“Nope, I’m too stubborn for that. But now, I feel like I’m heading in the right direction, so it’s good. Thank you, really.”  
  
“You are a strange masochist, Matsukawa,” says Hanamaki as he retrieves his coffee mug. “But seriously, all your practice and persistence has given you really good art skill; even a total newbie like me can tell. And that skill isn’t easy to come by, it’s not something you can just develop overnight. You’re only going to keep improving. I think your next major piece will be your best one yet, so…—what?”  
  
Matsukawa is watching him with a fond look on his face. “You kind of sound like a teacher,” he says.  
  
“My _goodness_ , is that the time? I have to go.”  
  
“Hanamaki, come _on_ , we never really talk about your teaching thing.”  
  
“I don’t _have_ a teaching thing. I told you, I just… fell out of it.”  
  
They both fall silent. Hanamaki sips his coffee again, avoiding eye contact.  
  
“Is that it, though?” asks Matsukawa, quietly.  
  
“Yes, that’s it,” says Hanamaki, but he knows his voice is a little too snappy to be believable. “Where’s your sugar? I’m going to add some.”  
  
“I already added two sugars.”  
  
Hanamaki stands up and quickly locates the sugar jar in the kitchenette. “I ditched teaching, Matsukawa. That’s all.”  
  
“Have you ever thought about going back?”  
  
“I… sometimes. And it makes me queasy.”  
  
There’s a long pause. Hanamaki adds his sugar and puts the jar back, and returns to the couch. When he sees the unhappy look on Matsukawa’s face, his own expression softens.  
  
“Don’t worry about it,” says Hanamaki.  
  
“Any time you want to talk about it…”  
  
“It’s fine. Really. Let’s go back to talking about your paintings; I like that much better. It’s fine.”  
  
“Okay,” says Matsukawa, but Hanamaki can tell that he doesn’t quite believe him. He can’t really blame him for that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
“Don’t forget, it’s my mother’s birthday this Saturday, so I’ll be out all weekend,” Oikawa is saying as he washes the dishes one evening. Iwaizumi was out with some co-workers, so it had just been Oikawa and Hanamaki having dinner that Hanamaki had cooked at home. “I’ll be back late on Sunday night. Iwa-chan’s working; my parents were really disappointed to hear he can’t make it.”  
  
“I can’t believe you’re leaving me with your gorilla,” Hanamaki deadpans from the couch as he scrolls through a store’s webpage of messenger bags on sale. “I thought you cared about me.”  
  
“ _Makki_.”  
  
“Tell everyone I said hi. Don’t worry, Iwaizumi and I will behave. I’ll keep him out of trouble.”  
  
“That only makes me worry _more_.”  
  
Hanamaki grins, shark-like. “Good.”  
  
Oikawa sighs as he finishes up with the dishes. He reaches into their fridge and fishes out an apple, which he washes and begins peeling. “Maybe I should ask Mattsun to stay over and keep an eye on you both.”  
  
“What are we, children?” Hanamaki complains. “And what makes you think Matsukawa’s anymore _grown up_ than us?”  
  
“He has to deal with being your friend; that’s enough evidence for me.”  
  
Hanamaki mimes throwing a couch cushion at him. “Jackass. No wonder you and Iwaizumi are such a good match.”  
  
Oikawa just slices up his apple into a bowl and grins. Hanamaki entertains the idea of putting up an advert online for new housemates.  
  
“Seriously, though,” says Oikawa as he brings his bowl over to the couch and sits on the opposite end to Hanamaki, “feel free to invite Mattsun over for dinner while I’m gone or something—”  
  
“You’re only going for a _weekend_ , Oikawa,” says Hanamaki exasperatedly.  
  
“— _because it’s nice to have friends over_ ,” Oikawa adds. “But, well, yes, if you were in my shoes, you’d also do whatever you could to make sure the apartment building is still standing.”  
  
He parries the couch cushion that Hanamaki really does lob at him this time. Hanamaki rolls his eyes and says, “The apartment will be fine, the landlord will still love us—”  
  
“A- _hem_.”  
  
“—will still love _you_ , and so will our neighbours. I’ll livetweet us making dinner, if that makes you feel better.”  
  
“I guess that’s the best I’ve got. Ooh, speaking of making food, one of my cousins landed an internship at some famous-ish chef’s restaurant in Sapporo! She started just last week and says he’s really strict, but is also a great teacher and—”  
  
Oikawa’s off, chatting happily about his cousin and how proud he is, and Hanamaki’s half-listening. He knows it’s not all that bad, if Oikawa’s switching topics this easily.  
  
The word _teacher_ lingers in his head, though. Only half-aware of what he’s doing, Hanamaki finds himself searching up the keywords for the education course he had taken at Tohoku Uni, and then clicking on the first relevant link. As soon as the website loads, he slams his laptop shut. He runs his hands over his face, muttering, “Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope.”  
  
“What’s wrong?” Oikawa is staring at him.  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Makki—”  
  
“Lately, I’ve been thinking about my life’s choices, and I’m not sure how I feel about it,” says Hanamaki in one breath. He tilts his head back against the couch and lets his hands fall onto his laptop. “That time I dropped out of uni…”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Yeah. That’s it. I’ve just been thinking about it. Matsukawa’s brought it up a few times and I’ve just… I don’t know. No one else brings it up aside from him, so it’s on my mind.”  
  
Oikawa chews on a slice of apple thoughtfully, swatting Hanamaki’s hand away when he tries to steal a piece. “What’s Mattsun been saying?”  
  
“He doesn’t say much.”  
  
“Let me guess,” says Oikawa, and Hanamaki braces himself because Oikawa is almost always right. “He wants you to talk about it, but you keep deflecting and saying that it’s not your kind of thing anymore.”  
  
Hanamaki looks sulky. “It’s not… I’m not…”  
  
“I’ve known you for years, Makki; I pick up hints. Apparently, Mattsun’s not bad at it either.”  
  
“You’re all horrible people.”  
  
“And you’re dishonest,” says Oikawa smoothly.  
  
“Go on, Oikawa; I _do_ love being kicked when I’m down.”  
  
“If it’s on your mind like this—”  
  
“I was being sarcastic, you jackass—”  
  
“—then obviously, you haven’t given up completely. Or, maybe you just haven’t gotten the closure you need.” Oikawa watches Hanamaki with a familiar cleverness, a familiar understanding. “Either way, I don’t think it’d be a bad idea to talk about it. Iwa-chan and I have brought it up with you before, but… I think maybe Mattsun could offer a new perspective.”  
  
Absently, Hanamaki runs his thumb over the logo of his laptop. _It’ll be good to get another opinion_ , he remembers Matsukawa saying.  
  
“You should think about it,” says Oikawa when Hanamaki doesn’t respond.  
  
“Maybe,” says Hanamaki with a non-committal shrug.  
  
“ _Makki_.”  
  
“Maybe is the best you’re going to get from me,” says Hanamaki, but he smiles a little, and Oikawa’s face softens. “Anyway—we’ll see.”  
  
Oikawa offers him an apple slice, which Hanamaki takes. The rest of their evening is quiet and uneventful.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
Oikawa leaves for his parents’ place on Saturday morning. Hanamaki had wished him a safe trip before heading out a few minutes before Oikawa did in order to go for a quick supermarket run, but it was really so he and Iwaizumi could share a more _intimate_ goodbye without Hanamaki hanging around and making things awkward for them.  
  
Honestly, Hanamaki is a _great_ housemate.  
  
He snickers whilst in the middle of folding some new shirts, earning a curious look from one of his juniors nearby.  
  
It’s a chill Saturday, otherwise. Everyone else carries on and goes to work; Hanamaki deals with a mishap when an order of jeans gets shipped to the wrong Uniqlo store; Matsukawa, on a quick lunch break from his job at the art supply store, stops by with a bottle of strawberry Calpis for Hanamaki (“My boss gave it to me, but it’s too sweet, so help me out and take it.”), who then has to deal with his nosy juniors asking all sorts of questions; Iwaizumi makes dinner, and Hanamaki livetweets the mundanity of it all to Oikawa. They had invited Matsukawa over for dinner too, but Matsukawa had swapped shifts with a co-worker, which then freed up his Sunday afternoon so that he and Hanamaki could see an exhibition that was on at the Mediatheque.  
  
“We’ll probably grab dinner, too,” Hanamaki tells Iwaizumi on Sunday morning, before he leaves the apartment for the market. “Did you want to come along?”  
  
Iwaizumi, tucked up on the couch and scrolling through his phone, blinks and looks up. “Nah, I’m good, but thanks.”  
  
“Are you sure? You won’t get lonely by yourself?”  
  
“How old do you think I am? I’ll be fine.”  
  
“You wound me,” Hanamaki deadpans as he begins pulling his shoes on.  
  
“You’re the one always going on about how peaceful it is when Oikawa and I aren’t at home!”  
  
“I’m _wounded_.”  
  
“Keep this up, and I’ll give you a _real_ injury.”  
  
“ _Gasp!_ A _threat_ against my _life_ , I will have to report this to Oikawa—”  
  
“You really think he’s going to take your side on this?”  
  
“True. Unfair and disgusting, but true. I think I do have a small chance, though.” Hanamaki finishes tying up his shoelaces. “Okay, I’m heading out now.”  
  
“Have _fu-u-un_.”  
  
With one hand on the door handle, Hanamaki stops at the sound of Iwaizumi’s Oikawa-esque sing-song voice, turns, and squints at him suspiciously. “What was that?”  
  
“What was what?” says Iwaizumi, not taking his eyes off his phone.  
  
“That. You were— _don’t play dumb with me, you dipshit_.”  
  
A smirk twitches at the corner of Iwaizumi’s mouth. “Well, it’s just—you know. Ever since meeting Matsukawa, you’ve chilled out a lot more.”  
  
Hanamaki’s eyes narrow at him. “What are you saying?”  
  
“Exactly what you think I’m saying.” Iwaizumi throws a couch cushion at him, which Hanamaki swats away. “Get out of here already. Tell Matsukawa I said hi.”  
  
“Eat shit.”  
  
“Witty.”  
  
With a roll of his eyes, Hanamaki leaves and shuts the door behind him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
The exhibition they see is a moving images one presented by an artist from Akita Prefecture, with several projections playing on the walls of the gallery space depicting colourful, _artsy_ videos of daily life, each exactly twelve seconds long and looping endlessly, with an obscure name and an even more obscure theme. Hanamaki doesn’t understand any bit of it on an _art_ level, and finds the flashing and flickering videos too distracting to be peaceful.  
  
“So, thoughts?” Matsukawa asks when he and Hanamaki leave the Mediatheque that afternoon.  
  
“It’s not my kind of thing,” Hanamaki admits.  
  
“No, _really?_ ” says Matsukawa with a joking grin. “You couldn’t appreciate the way the colours meshed together to represent the _fleeting abstractness of time,_ and the artist’s conflicting emotions depicted in the graininess of th—”  
  
“ _Stop_ ,” says Hanamaki, jostling him playfully. “I didn’t get _any_ of that.” Matsukawa snickers.  
  
“I’m more of a traditional art kind of guy myself, but going to these every now and then isn’t so bad,” he says.  
  
“I’ll take your word for it,” says Hanamaki.  
  
“You’re pragmatic; I appreciate that.”  
  
Hanamaki likes this ease, this light banter. He’s _having fun_ , which he almost feels like he shouldn’t, just to spite Iwaizumi. Was he right, though? Had Hanamaki actually _chilled out_ since meeting Matsukawa? What did the gorilla even mean by that?  
  
“What do you want to do now?” Matsukawa asks, snapping Hanamaki out of his thoughts. “The exhibition was a lot shorter than I expected.”  
  
“Maybe the artist should’ve made his videos longer than twelve seconds,” Hanamaki deadpans. Matsukawa snorts violently and laughs. “Was there anything else you wanted to see here?”  
  
“Nothing else,” Matsukawa replies when he calms down. “Is there something we can see at Tohoku Uni? They have a museum, right? We can take the train down.”  
  
Hanamaki can almost feel his own enthusiasm physically drop. “What, right now?”  
  
“Well, maybe not, but whenever we next have some free time. I’m always dragging you to galleries, but we’ve never gone to any exhibitions you’re interested in.”  
  
“I’m fine with galleries.”  
  
Matsukawa nudges him. “I want to expand my horizons. Show me nerd stuff.”  
  
“The Science Museum has plenty; go wild.”  
  
“ _Hanamakiiiii_ ,” says Matsukawa in a childish mock-whining voice, looking at him with a ridiculous pout that makes Hanamaki turn away to fight back a smile. “Take me to go see _dinosaurs_.”  
  
“You’re an adult now, _Matsukawa-kun_ ; you don’t need me to hold your hand anymore.”  
  
“It’s true, I’m too tall to pass as a kid. No cheap entry fees for me.”  
  
“And when was the last time you tried that?”  
  
“Last week.”  
  
Hanamaki laughs. They continue walking around, aimlessly, but Hanamaki knows he’s not off the hook yet. It’s when they are near Nishi Park and it’s quieter, that Matsukawa pulls ahead of him. He looks upwards at the sky and stretches his arms above his head, like he wants to grab the scattering of clouds hanging lazily high above.  
  
“You know, we joke, but I don’t really know much about you,” he says, and Hanamaki can hear something like disappointment in his voice. “I know I can’t force you to share things about yourself, but… I’d like it if you did. If you… If you shared more about what you love.” Matsukawa sighs and lets his arms drop by his side again. “You’re great, you know? You have a lot of great things about you, but I think there’s still so much _more_ to you that you’re not willing to let other people see.”  
  
Hanamaki scoffs, ignores the weird swooping feeling in his stomach. “That’s sweet and everything, but there’s nothing impressive about me at all. I am very ordinary and unimpressive.”  
  
Matsukawa turns and looks at him. He has a small smile on his face, but it’s hard to read. Hanamaki thinks that _maybe_ , it looks a little sad.  
  
“Being ‘ordinary’ doesn’t mean you can’t be impressive,” says Matsukawa, and Hanamaki stops walking. “I never did ask—why did you want to become a teacher in the first place?”  
  
“Why are you trying to give me an existential crisis?”  
  
He’s doing it again: _deflecting_ , as Oikawa said. He does this a lot, he realises—admits to himself—with more clarity.  
  
“Was it because you wanted to guide people?” Matsukawa continues. “Maybe you wanted to show students what you loved about science. Maybe you wanted to try to pass on that passion you had.”  
  
“Who says I had passion for it?”  
  
“What makes you think you don’t?” says Matsukawa quietly. “I saw the look on your face when you saw that painting with the bees at the _nostalgia for the future_ exhibition. And when you told me about how important bees are, that was probably the most fired-up that I’ve ever seen you. So… I just think you should be more honest with yourself every now and then.”  
  
Hanamaki looks mock-affronted and says in a comedic voice, “Are calling me a _liar?_ ”  
  
“I’m saying you’re dishonest.”  
  
“I’m—hey.” Hanamaki stares at him. Somewhere in his mind, Oikawa echoes the same thing. Matsukawa still has that hard-to-read look on his face, and Hanamaki meets his eyes without blinking for all of four seconds before looking away.  
  
“It’s fine,” Hanamaki mutters, because he finds escape in vague answers. “Forget about it.”  
  
“I think you’re better than you think you are—”  
  
“I’m—”  
  
“So I just—”  
  
“ _Forget it_ ,” says Hanamaki sharply. His heart sinks a little when he sees Matsukawa falter.  
  
“Sorry,” says Matsukawa, and Hanamaki knows that he really is.  
  
“It’s—It’s fine, I shouldn’t have snapped,” says Hanamaki. “Sor—”  
  
“Don’t,” says Matsukawa. “Don’t apologise.”  
  
Hanamaki doesn’t, and they fall into silence for a while as they resume their walk around the park.  
  
There aren’t a lot of people around now. Hanamaki and Matsukawa occasionally have their moments like these, when their brief silences are comfortable, and Hanamaki can enjoy the peace. But this is not one of those silences, and with Matsukawa not saying anything, Hanamaki is stuck in his own loud thoughts. Most of him feels guilty for snapping; part of him is afraid that they’ll fall back into the routine of Matsukawa walking on eggshells around him, as though they were just acquaintances. It’s not like Hanamaki likes being analysed, but he thinks that he hates this tip-toeing even more. Friends didn’t do that to each other. And friends… friends shared things with each other, didn’t they?  
  
_I don’t really know much about you._  
  
He’s right, Hanamaki thinks. It’s not really the fault of either of them, but was this really okay, continuing like this and putting up walls? _I know I can’t force you to share things about yourself._ He knew he could hold Matsukawa to this, knew Matsukawa wouldn’t push Hanamaki too hard, but…  
  
It wasn’t… It wasn’t _that_ bad, was it?  
  
“Hey,” says Matsukawa, and Hanamaki blinks and looks up at him. There’s a small smile on Matsukawa’s face again, but this time it could only be described as _forgiving_. Hanamaki feels jealous that Matsukawa can be so easygoing. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from him. “Want to call it a day?”  
  
“Sure,” says Hanamaki. His own smile is more forced.  
  
And without bringing up any dinner plans, they leave Nishi Park.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
The minute he gets home, Hanamaki flops onto the apartment’s couch. Iwaizumi’s not home—he had sent Hanamaki a text message about getting some ramen for himself a few blocks away. Hanamaki relishes the quiet for a bit.  
  
Just for a bit.  
  
Hanamaki thinks about his and Matsukawa’s conversation over and over again. _Deflecting. Dishonest. I don’t really know much about you._ He’s not as uncomfortable as he expected to be, helped as he remembers Matsukawa inviting him over to his apartment sometime to have pasta again, and to get his thoughts on some paintings he was hoping to sell online, right before they split off to return to their respective homes. Matsukawa wasn’t angry. Hanamaki couldn’t picture him being angry.  
  
Hanamaki was making a big deal out of things, wasn’t he? Was he?  
  
_If you shared more about what you love—_  
  
He and Matsukawa, walking around an exhibition at the Science Museum; Hanamaki rambling about fascinating facts he had picked up over the years; telling Matsukawa about interesting discoveries and progresses in the fields he once loved; Matsukawa maybe using references from those displays in his paintings—  
  
_I think you’re better than you think you are—_  
  
Maybe it’s the fact that they aren’t face-to-face, that he finds it easier to pick up his phone and tap on Matsukawa’s number. Maybe he’s just tired. Maybe getting a second opinion isn’t a bad thing. Maybe—  
  
_—why did you want to become a teacher in the first place?_  
  
“Hey, what’s up?” comes Matsukawa voice, and there it is again: that weird but not unwelcome swooping sensation in Hanamaki’s stomach. Hanamaki takes a deep breath. It’s quiet over on Matsukawa’s side of the phone call—he must be at home, too.  
  
“In my first year of senior high,” Hanamaki says in lieu of a greeting, “my favourite teacher was my science teacher. She made classes really interesting, and she was always really encouraging. She’s part of the reason I wanted to be a teacher when I started finishing up in school. So I… went for it. I got into Tohoku Uni. I did fine, up until my second year.  
  
“Outside of uni, I worked as a private tutor for some junior high kids. It was a good run; the kids and their parents all liked me. But…” Hanamaki pauses, then sighs. “One of my students had a chemistry project that I was helping him with. I accidentally gave him the wrong piece of information, which he put into his project, and his teacher took some marks off for it. He did manage to get a good grade in the end, but I still haven’t really forgiven myself for that.  
  
“I think that’s what kicked off my doubt. I started thinking, ‘what if I completely screw up these kids’ futures because I was a shitty teacher’ and ‘what if I keep teaching them the wrong thing and they fail an exam because of me’—stuff like that. I started getting scared, and it got to a point where I couldn’t focus anymore. It was affecting my grades and I couldn’t focus on my course or my tutoring work, so I dropped both at the end of second year.  
  
“You asked me if I would ever go back,” Hanamaki continues, running his fingers through his hair. “The thing is, if keep hesitating over it, then doesn’t that just mean I don’t really want it? Or maybe I don’t deserve it? Oikawa and Iwaizumi sometimes say I’m being harsh on myself, but I don’t know. Even now, I still don’t know.  
  
“I feel… stupid.” And strangely enough, it feels good to admit this, like the weight on Hanamaki’s shoulders has lessened. “I feel like I’m making a big deal out of a small thing, but it was a big deal to me at the time. But I feel stupid for giving up so easily, and for not wanting to go back. Other people have it so much harder than me, but here I am. It’s been three years, and I’ve done nothing productive with myself. I think about my teaching course occasionally, but that's all I do.” Matsukawa has been silent all this time; Hanamaki takes a deep breath and says, “Anyway, that’s me. That’s my story. I just thought you deserved to know. Okay, bye.”  
  
“Hanamaki—”  
  
Hanamaki hangs up abruptly, tosses his phone onto the coffee table, and exhales loudly.  
  
He had only intended to tell Matsukawa the gist of what had happened. Not even Oikawa and Iwaizumi knew about all those finer details, about how stupid Hanamaki felt—feels—or about his feelings of inadequacy over his hesitation. But once Hanamaki had started talking, it had been hard to stop. It’s a little embarrassing, but he also feels lighter; he can’t remember the last time he’d gotten so much off his chest.  
  
His phone chimes, signalling a text message. It’s from Matsukawa, and the message simply has a rocketship emoji and a snowman emoji in it. Hanamaki has no idea what it means, but he sends back a single pudding emoji for no real good reason. Just a handful of seconds later, Matsukawa replies with a taco emoji, followed by, ' _thank you. let’s both do our best'_.  
  
After staring at it for a long time, and then replying with a single crab emoji, Hanamaki lets his phone slide onto the table again, and leans back against the couch. It’s quiet in and around the apartment, with the outside world being just the right level of noise that Hanamaki likes, keeping complete silence at bay.  
  
There’s some leftover fried rice and vegetables that Iwaizumi had cooked last night, so Hanamaki re-heats it and eats his dinner in the living room whilst catching up with social media for the day. He’s in the middle of liking a bunch of photos Oikawa has posted on his Facebook, when he sees Matsukawa has commented on a photo Oikawa had taken of one of the golden retrievers in his neighbourhood.  
  
He would much rather be having dinner with Matsukawa right now, Hanamaki thinks, a little surprised. He likes his alone time, his quiet and his peace… but somewhere along the way, Matsukawa’s company was slowly becoming more preferable. Hanamaki wonders when it began.  
  
_Let’s both do our best._  
  
He puts down his chopsticks and leans back in his chair to stare up at the ceiling. Iwaizumi would be coming home soon, and so would Oikawa, and then things would be back to normal. Maybe he would re-think all this tomorrow in the midst of the normalcy. It had been a long day.  
  
Tomorrow. Or something. Maybe.  
  
Hanamaki picks up his chopsticks and continues eating.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
What if he agreed to model for Matsukawa’s painting?  
  
The thought enters Hanamaki’s head as he absently thinks about his previous submissions to the Sendai Collective—for lack of anything better to think about, really—whilst re-folding a pile of cashmere sweaters. He stops, pauses, and then sets down the sweater he had been holding.  
  
What if Hanamaki told Matsukawa that he wouldn’t mind?  
  
Did Hanamaki mind?  
  
The thought doesn’t set him on edge like it had previously. He thinks about Matsukawa sketching Oikawa and Iwaizumi over their shabu-shabu dinner ages ago, and wonders what it’d be like to be them—to have Matsukawa observe him intently and draw until Hanamaki’s likeness appears on paper, and then he’d paint and paint, and then put it on display for complete strangers to hum and haw over. He and Hanamaki would joke about how Hanamaki should pose. Matsukawa would give Hanamaki colour and life—  
  
—like the way he already had recently, in a non-painting sense.  
  
Hanamaki fights back the urge to bury his face into the soft piles of cashmere in front of him and yell incoherently.  
  
Of course, whether or not the painting would make it into the Collective’s exhibition was another thing entirely, but, well… maybe it’s not completely terrible, being the subject of one of Matsukawa’s paintings. Matsukawa wasn’t some thoughtless uni kid with a final project to complete. He was… He was _Matsukawa_ ; he couldn’t be inconsiderate if someone _paid_ him to be.  
  
Maybe Hanamaki really didn’t mind. Maybe—  
  
“—amaki-san? Hanamaki-san!”  
  
Hanamaki jumps and turns to see one of his juniors staring at him, concerned.  
  
“Um, are you all right?” his junior asks.  
  
“Fine,” says Hanamaki hastily. “Fine, fine. Sorry, I was just—never mind. What’s up?”  
  
It turns out that one of the cash registers was malfunctioning. After prodding it for a bit to no avail, Hanamaki books in a repairman for later that afternoon, and carries on with his work. He pushes the thoughts of Matsukawa’s paintings out of his mind.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
Hanamaki does keep thinking about it, though. And the more he thinks about it, the more he finds that… he really wouldn’t mind. Maybe. There’s still a ‘maybe’ that lingers, but it lessens each time, and Hanamaki doesn’t fight it.  
  
The following Saturday sees Iwaizumi dragging them all out for dinner at his favourite izakaya, Matsukawa included, because it had been an exhausting work week, and Iwaizumi felt like he deserved to treat himself to good food and a couple of beers. Hanamaki and Oikawa had been chatting in front of the restaurant, when they looked up to see Iwaizumi approaching and hauling Matsukawa by his jacket collar, with Matsukawa half-laughing and half-protesting, “You know I was going to come along anyway!”  
  
“Nice job, Iwa-chan!” says Oikawa, highfiving him. Hanamaki and Matsukawa just grin at each other—Hanamaki feels a great relief that things are still normal between them—before they all pile inside and a waitress ushers them into a booth towards the back of the restaurant. After several minutes of joking around and getting distracted from studying the menus and the waitress coming by twice to ask if they were ready to order yet, they decide on their food and drinks. When the drinks arrive first, Iwaizumi declares a simple toast: “To getting through the week,” he says. They toast their glasses.  
  
They talk and joke around as usual, swapping stories about work mishaps, plans to travel, movie recommendations, high school embarrassments—about anything that comes to mind as they eat and play-fight over the food and top up their beers. It’s always livelier whenever Matsukawa joins them for a meal. Everyone is rowdier, and there’s more laughter.  
  
Hanamaki realises with a warm feeling in his chest, that he likes this. This… spending time with the three people who possibly know him best. Oikawa and Iwaizumi, his two closest friends; Matsukawa, around whom Hanamaki found himself letting his guard down so easily.  
  
Even Oikawa and Iwaizumi had to poke and prod at him until Hanamaki was comfortable enough to open up to them. Matsukawa? Matsukawa kept his distance and made small invitations and gestures, until Hanamaki was the one taking the steps to bridge that gap between them. Gentle pulls, until Hanamaki willingly followed. Maybe Oikawa and Iwaizumi had softened him up after all this time. Maybe Hanamaki actually wasn’t as cynical and curt as he thought himself to be.  
  
Maybe he’s a little tired of putting up walls around him.  
  
It gets to almost half-past ten o’clock when they’re finishing off the last of their drinks, and things start to wind down. Oikawa’s telling a story regarding an aunt and uncle and a miscommunication involving six karaoke machines, and Hanamaki can’t help but sneak glances at Matsukawa across the table from him. He looks like Hanamaki feels: content and warm and—  
  
Did he always have such a nice smile? Huh. Hanamaki hadn’t really noticed before. It wasn’t as though he didn’t pay attention when Matsukawa smiled or laughed previously, but _right now_ … well. It was. Yeah, it was nice…  
  
Matsukawa looks at him and they accidentally meet each other’s eyes. Hanamaki hastily looks away, downing the rest of his beer. From the corner of his eye, he thinks he can see Matsukawa’s gaze lingering on him before he turns his attention back to Oikawa and Iwaizumi, both of whom are laughing and haven’t noticed. Hanamaki forces himself to focus too, but it’s proving tricky thanks to the increasing haziness from a mix of the beer, the cigarette smoke from nearby smokers further down the aisle, and this comfortable company he’s keeping.  
  
Hanamaki nudges his empty beer glass away and leans his elbows on the table, resting his cheek against one palm as he listens contently to his friends chat. Iwaizumi’s telling them his own work mishap story, but Hanamaki’s only half-listening, getting sleepy now. He didn’t stay up _that_ late last night, did he? And it wasn’t like he woke up especially early or anything…  
  
“—could try piggybacking him, but he’ll probably wake up. We should just leave him here.”  
  
“ _Iwa-chan,_ he’ll make your life hell for a whole week if we did.”  
  
“That’s true. Wait, why _my_ life, specifically?”  
  
“I can stay with him for a bit, if you two want to go ahead.”  
  
“We can’t do that to you, Matsukawa. What are we, monsters?”  
  
“Actually, yes,” says Hanamaki, forcing his eyelids open and raising his head suddenly, causing Oikawa and Matsukawa to start.  
  
“Damn,” says Iwaizumi, tipping the last of his beer into his mouth. “I was going to tell the wait staff to sic the bill onto you. I wanted another drink.”  
  
“I would make your life hell for _two_ whole weeks, you shitlord.”  
  
Iwaizumi smirks. “No different to my usual, then.”  
  
“All right, all right,” says Oikawa loudly. “If I let you two keep going, you’ll end up arm-wrestling again. Let’s get the bill, we’ve been here more than three hours.”  
  
“Spoilsport,” Hanamaki and Iwaizumi chime at the same time, and then grin at each other.  
  
They leave after sorting out the bill. The air outside is cool, and Hanamaki takes a welcome breath, away from the haziness and smoke. They insist on accompanying Matsukawa to the station, despite his protests. Oikawa and Iwaizumi walk on ahead a little, discussing their Sunday plans, and Matsukawa falls into step beside Hanamaki, and this—this is familiar. This is good.  
  
“Are you okay?” Matsukawa asks with a hint of a laugh in his voice. “You’re walking in a straight line, so I guess it’s not all that bad.”  
  
“Fine, fine,” says Hanamaki with an airy wave of his hand. “Don’t worry about me, I could drink those two under the table.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Of course I—hey, what was that? Doubt? Are you _doubting_ me, Matsuiss—Matsu—what’s your name again?” Matsukawa cracks up. Hanamaki grins and rubs his eyes. “Nah, I’m fine, I only had a few beers. And, anyway, I’ve got my morning market war tomorrow with the oldies. Gotta keep my wits up.”  
  
“I’ll scout out the day’s deals for you. Stop by my table to collect intel.”  
  
“You are a good man, Matsukawa,” says Hanamaki. “I’ll bring you a cream puff.”  
  
“I’m still holding out on getting a cheese-filled hamburg steak from you, in exchange for my precious intel.”  
  
“But when I stop by your stall, it’s always closer to breakfast than lunch.”  
  
“Yeah, I’ve never had it for breakfast before. I want to try.”  
  
“That worries me.”  
  
“You’ve never wanted to eat steak for breakfast?”  
  
“Never, and don’t talk about heavy food right after we’ve had such a big dinner; I’m gonna be sick.”  
  
“Fine, fine, I’ll stick to the cream puff.”  
  
“A smart choice.”  
  
“Oi, you two,” Iwaizumi calls over his shoulder, “if you go any slower, we’ll leave you behind.”  
  
“Ugh, just go ahead,” Hanamaki replies. “It’s not like I don’t know my way. Go and make out for a bit before I get home, but nothing more than kissing, you hear me?” Iwaizumi and Oikawa both flip their middle fingers at him. Matsukawa snickers.  
  
They do split off a short way from the station. Iwaizumi promises Hanamaki swift pain and a restraining order if he yells anything else inappropriate down the street. When Hanamaki gets a mischievous glint in his eye, Matsukawa physically pulls him away, laughing, and Oikawa hauls Iwaizumi down the street by his shirt collar.  
  
“That’s a nice sight,” says Matsukawa with a fond smile, watching them retreat in the distance. He holds his index fingers and thumbs up like a frame, closing one eye. “Two people, head-over-heels for each other, with a colourful night-time cityscape background. I might paint that sometime.”  
  
“If you ever sell it, I’ll buy it off you and give it to them as a present,” says Hanamaki as they resume walking. “We give each other shit all the time, but honestly, Oikawa and Iwaizumi are my best friends, and they deserve so much. Plus, I get to tease them more.”  
  
Matsukawa turns his fond smile to Hanamaki now—and there’s that odd swooping feeling again.  
  
“You put up a front a lot, but you really are better than you think you are, you know,” he says.  
  
Hanamaki groans. “C’mon, stop,” he says. “You’re ruining the moment. We’re meant to be celebrating my ridiculous friends.”  
  
“All right, all right. I just… I want to make sure you know it.”  
  
“Well, it’s not like you’ll let me forget.”  
  
“That’s true.”  
  
Hanamaki throws him a mock-indignant look, but Matsukawa just turns the collar of his jacket up, not looking at him, but still smiling. Hanamaki elbows him in the ribs, and Matsukawa gives a muffled yelp of protest and nudges him back, and Hanamaki thinks that if he could spend his whole life like this—with this easy company, this easy push-and-pull, this readily-given apology and readily-given forgiveness—then he could tear down his walls without any lingering fear or doubt.  
  
And he would let Matsukawa paint him.  
  
He is comfortable with this. He trusts Matsukawa, trusts this relationship they have, trusts that he wouldn’t ever be made to feel like an idiot over it, trusts in the warmth and kindness and strength he’s found in him.  
  
He’d feel like a bit of an ass if he told Matsukawa that now, though, especially after the way he’d declined that first time in his Uniqlo store. And he isn’t sure if it was too late or not.  
  
But if Matsukawa asks again, Hanamaki would say yes. After days of mulling over it, he knows this for certain—he would say yes, and not regret it for a moment.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
“I can’t believe it,” Hanamaki says with a dramatic sigh.  
  
“It’s not that bad,” Oikawa replies over the phone.  
  
“I’m so _betrayed_.”  
  
“I thought you liked your peace and quiet away from us,” Iwaizumi voice chimes in over the loudspeaker.  
  
“So _hurt_.”  
  
“It’s not like we had any plans,” Oikawa adds.  
  
“I’m sobbing in the middle of the street right now.”  
  
“Okay, let’s go, Oikawa,” says Iwaizumi.  
  
“See you soon, Makki.”  
  
“Oi, you’re supposed to grovel and beg for my forgiveness, and then buy me a dozen cream puffs to make up for ditching me,” says Hanamaki, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder.  
  
“Go drag Matsukawa out for dinner and whine to him instead,” says Iwaizumi.  
  
“That’s _two_ dozen cream puffs from you, you troglodyte!”  
  
“Matsukawa can treat you.”  
  
“I can’t do that to him, he’s too nice,” says Hanamaki. “ _He_ wouldn’t ditch me without a good reason.”  
  
“Mm… he _is_ a good guy, isn’t he?” Iwaizumi muses. Hanamaki thinks he can hear Oikawa snickering. “He would be a good, caring, thoughtful partner.”  
  
Hanamaki stops walking abruptly.  
  
“One hundred percent boyfriend material,” Oikawa adds. “He gets my approval to date Makki. Does he get yours, Iwa-chan?”  
  
“Of course he does.”  
  
“Makki always looks more relaxed around him.”  
  
“You know, that’s what I said that ages ago, and Hanamaki had no clue.”  
  
“That’s _adorable_.”  
  
There’s a long pause.  
  
“… Makki?” says Oikawa cautiously. “Are you there?”  
  
All Hanamaki manages is a strangled gurgling sound coming from his throat.  
  
“Wow, we short-circuited him,” says Iwaizumi. “I’ve got to do this again the next time I have to fight him for the PlayStation.”  
  
“Fuck you,” says Hanamaki automatically. “I’m. That’s.”  
  
“ _Makki!_ ” says Oikawa delightedly. “You’ve actually thought about this!”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hanamaki snaps. And then, reluctantly: “Of course I’ve thought about it.”  
  
“ _Iwa-chan, did you hear that?!_ Makki, I can’t _believe_ you’re actually not as dense as we thought you were!”  
  
“I don’t want to hear that from _you two,_ of _all_ people.” In the background, Hanamaki can hear Iwaizumi bursting into laughter. “ _Fuck you_. Okay, you shitlords, I’m hanging up.”  
  
“ _Tell Mattsun we said hi!_ ”  
  
Hanamaki hangs up and shoves his phone into his pocket, and then runs his fingers through his hair roughly with a soft groan.  
  
There was no way he could’ve gotten out of that one. Oikawa and Iwaizumi could be _annoyingly_ sharp (except when it came to their own relationship, Hanamaki reminds himself—a small, smug victory), and would’ve figured it out soon enough. To Hanamaki, at least, it had been such a slow and gradual change, but he supposes it’s a different thing entirely to the people around him.  
  
He’s pretty sure of how he feels, now—that somewhere along the way, he’d gone from simply enjoying Matsukawa’s company, to… to _this_ : to feeling _warm_ around him, to feeling like he’d found a place to turn to that he hadn’t even realised he had been looking for; to finding the beginnings of newfound courage he thinks he wouldn’t mind exploring; to the lightness he feels as he allows himself to open his heart a little more.  
  
Hanamaki bites his lip as he realises with a start that he is smiling. He hates to admit it, but Oikawa and Iwaizumi really are right—he’s more relaxed and happier these days. He really likes this, almost as much as he really likes…  
  
Well.  
  
With a sigh, he pulls out his keys and begins to open up shop for the day.  
  
He’d left the apartment in the morning earlier than Oikawa and Iwaizumi had, because there had been an order of down jackets that he’d forgotten to check on, and as he had been walking to work, his friends had called him to inform him that they’ll be having a dinner date together. Though he really is happy for them, it does leave him without anything to do. He could fry up some noodles, make himself something quick and healthy…  
  
Hmm.  
  
His work day consists of him zoning out a few more times, wondering if Matsukawa had any plans, because, well, why not? If he was busy, then Hanamaki could just chill out at home, but if he was lucky enough to catch him on a free evening…  
  
When Hanamaki zones out for the eighth time at mid-afternoon, his store manager sends him home for the day, despite Hanamaki’s protests. Something about _you’ve been working hard all week,_ mingled with _it’s quiet today so we can handle it here,_ and a bit of _go and hang out with your friend, you know, the really nice tall guy who brought us Pocky that time._  
  
Hanamaki stares suspiciously at his store manager, who is blinking innocently, and at the flock of nosy juniors suddenly peeking over at them, before he sighs, finishes up his task at hand, and prepares to leave early.  
  
“I can’t believe you’re all kicking me out,” he says with a dramatic sigh as he shoulders his bag. “I should lodge a complaint.”  
  
“See you tomorrow, Hanamaki-san,” says one of his juniors.  
  
“Tell Matsukawa-san we said hi!” another of his juniors calls out happily. Their store manager just snorts violently with laughter and hurries away with an armful of t-shirts.  
  
Shaking his head, Hanamaki leaves. He likes his store, _honestly_ , but _sometimes_ …  
  
Well. He pulls out his phone and checks the time; Matsukawa should be finishing his shift at Lawson soon.

  
  
**From: Hanamaki**  
are u free today?  
if not that’s cool but if so i was thinking maybe we could grab dinner?  
i finished work early

  
  
He doesn’t expect an answer right away, and walks around window shopping for a bit. Almost fifteen minutes later, Matsukawa replies:

  
  
**From: Matsukawa**  
sure, let’s go (^_^)  
I’m just picking up some new paints and then I’ll be on my way home, so do you want to hang out at my place for a bit?  
  
**From: Hanamaki**  
yep~ see u there ✌︎('ω'✌︎)

  
  
Hanamaki manages to arrive before Matsukawa does, and sits on the steps leading up to his apartment. He’s not used to finishing work this early, but he contents himself with enjoying the afternoon sun and the quiet of Matsukawa’s apartment block, and checks social media for a bit.  
  
This is nice: a moment of respite after a busy week, waiting for someone he admittedly cared about to come home. Well, obviously, he sometimes waited for Oikawa and Iwaizumi to come home too, but there was a world of difference between waiting for them, and waiting for Matsukawa, and in any case, it made no sense to compare them.  
  
But, whatever. He should just enjoy the moment.  
  
Hanamaki adjusts his position more comfortably on the stairs, rests his arms on his knees, and then rests his chin on his arms. He closes his eyes for just a moment and thinks about possible nearby dinner places they could go to, what he should have for breakfast and lunch tomorrow, whether Oikawa and Iwaizumi might actually buy him cream puffs on the way home (low chance; he shouldn’t risk it, and should just buy some for himself, because it was obviously better to have too many cream puffs than to have no cream puffs at all).  
      
He hears footsteps after a moment, and raises his head curiously. Matsukawa comes into view as he turns the corner of his apartment block, and when he looks up and sees Hanamaki, his face eases into a warm smile. Hanamaki feels his heart rate speed up, feels the warmth blossom somewhere in his chest, feels himself smiling back, and he thinks about how obvious this all is, how he probably couldn’t have hidden it, even if he tried to. For a moment, they stay that way, content and comfortable.  
  
“Hey,” says Hanamaki at last.  
  
“Hey,” Matsukawa answers, moving to join him on the stairs, sitting one step below him. “Everything okay at work?”  
  
“Yeah, it was quiet, so my store manager told me I could take the rest of the day off,” says Hanamaki. “I decided to bother you, because Iwaizumi and Oikawa are on a gross _date_ , and they’ve left me alone.”  
  
“I would feel sorry for you, but you _were_ one of their biggest supporters.”  
  
“Yeah, well, everyone makes bad choices.” But Hanamaki is grinning when Matsukawa laughs.  
  
“I was going to go out anyway; I ran out of vegetables at home,” says Matsukawa. “Any suggestions for dinner?”  
  
“Hmm… how does soba from Goromaru’s sound?”  
  
“Hot soba,” says Matsukawa with a content sigh, “with a tonne of seaweed… maybe tempura… hell yeah, let’s go. Let me get changed first, though. Want to come inside?”  
  
“Sure.” They pull themselves to their feet, and Hanamaki follows Matsukawa into his apartment, where he promptly heads straight to the couch to enjoy the patch of sunlight streaming through.  
  
“Hey, don’t get too comfortable.”  
  
“Too late,” says Hanamaki as Matsukawa disappears into his bedroom. With a small smile, Hanamaki looks around the room. He feels warm, and it’s not just because of the late afternoon sun; it’s this place that’s become familiar to him, it’s _Matsukawa_ who’s become familiar, despite his initial awkwardness, despite their initial distances, despite Hanamaki knowing very little about Matsukawa’s world before meeting him… he likes this point that he’s arrived at, this warmth he’s found.  
  
If he reached out, would Matsukawa take hold?  
  
Hanamaki tilts his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling.  
  
_One thing at a time_ , he tells himself. He could be patient. He could enjoy this for now.  
  
His gaze falls onto Matsukawa’s desk, spotting a large piece of watercolour paper lying on its surface. He stands up to take a better look, and sees that it’s a light graphite pencil sketch of what looks like a fiery phoenix, beautifully and meticulously detailed.  
  
“Is this your piece for the Collective?” he asks when he hears Matsukawa’s bedroom door open.  
  
“Yeah,” says Matsukawa. “I haven’t figured out the colours yet, but I’m testing colour combinations, so I think I’ll get something soon.”  
  
“Why a phoenix?”  
  
“In Western mythology, a phoenix symbolises rebirth,” says Matsukawa with a shrug. “A cycle of life, a cycle of _trying again_. This is me trying again. What do you think of the composition? I was thinking it might be a bit heavy at the bottom, but I figured the negative space at the top balances it out.”  
  
“I guess? It’ll depend on the colours you choose, though, wouldn’t it?”  
  
“Yeah, I was thinking of making the phoenix really vivid, and probably using just two cool colours for the background…” Matsukawa trails off with a hum. Hanamaki takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. His pulse has quickened, and a small voice tells him to _wait_ , but the reality is that they’ve done too much waiting already, and Hanamaki felt that Matsukawa deserved more than that.  
  
“How long does it take you to do a final piece from scratch?” Hanamaki asks.  
  
“Depends on the piece.”  
  
“How long do you have until the deadline?”  
  
“Three weeks,” Matsukawa answers, tapping his chin absently. “Why?”  
  
Not looking at him, and with his heart rate speeding up even more so that it’s slightly dizzying, Hanamaki asks, “I was wondering—well, I don’t know if it’s too late, but… would you still want to paint my portrait?”  
  
There’s a long pause, before he hears Matsukawa say, “Yes.” But his voice surprises Hanamaki; it’s hesitant, and not as excited as he kind of expected it to be.  
  
“What if,” Hanamaki continues in a murmur, “I told you I would be okay with it?”  
  
The silence is heavier this time. Hanamaki begins to wonder what went wrong, whether he may have screwed up somewhere, maybe asked too late, because—  
  
“I need you to be sure,” says Matsukawa. Hanamaki looks up, surprised; Matsukawa is frowning back at him with an odd expression on his face, like that of caution, confusion, and something like frustration. “I need you to be completely sure about this, Hanamaki. I know you haven’t wanted to model before, so I don’t… I don’t want you to suddenly offer because you’re _feeling sorry for me_ or something like th—”  
  
“I’m not feeling _sorry_ for—” Hanamaki pushes himself off the couch and stands to look Matsukawa eye-to-eye. “What’s this about?”  
  
Matsukawa looks away. “I just don’t want you to force yourself to do something if you aren’t comfortable with it, that’s all.”  
  
“But I’m fine with it.”  
  
“And I don’t want you to say that just for my sake. If you _do_ want to be my model, I want to make sure that it’s because you _actually_ want to. So… I need you to be honest.”  
  
“But I _am_ being honest. I’m—”  
  
Seeing the hesitation on Matsukawa’s face, Hanamaki stops. Something about the way Matsukawa looks reminds him of the day they first met—the way he had winced when Hanamaki outright rejected his request to model for him; the flickers of hope, dashed when he had been too forward too quickly; the uncertainty during the times they ran into each other afterwards, only falling away by them slowly getting used to each other’s company…  
  
Hanamaki had pushed Matsukawa away quite adamantly when they had first met, but now—  
  
“Matsukawa.”  
  
He looks up at him. Hanamaki’s expression softens.  
  
“Thank you,” he says. “You’ve been really considerate this whole time, and I really appreciate that. But I’m fine with it, I promise. I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t sure. I changed my mind—I’d be happy to be your model, if you still want me to.”  
  
Something brightens in Matsukawa’s eyes, like a hope that Hanamaki can feel in the depths of his chest. A little smile quirks at the corners of Hanamaki’s lips, and all uncertainty seems to melt away from Matsukawa’s face. He rocks back on his heels and exhales like he’s been granted permission to breathe.  
  
“I’m—I—I’ll need to sketch you, I—” Matsukawa turns and dives for his sketchbook on the nearby table and flips it open hurriedly. “I mean, is this a good time? Do you have to be anywhere?”  
  
“No,” says Hanamaki. “I’ve got the rest of the day free.”  
  
“Okay,” says Matsukawa. “Okay, so—”  
  
“Sketch away. What should I do? Sit here? Should I pose? Dance?”  
  
“No—no, no.” Matsukawa laughs, flustered. “Just sit there, it’s fine. But don’t sit all stiff like that, just… relax. Enjoy that sunlight, like you always do. Actually, do you want a drink or something?”  
  
“Nah, I’m good,” says Hanamaki, easing back against the couch and tucking his feet comfortably beneath himself. “Just talk to me, I’ll be fine. Are _you_ okay, though? You seem a bit jittery.”  
  
“I’m…” Matsukawa takes a deep breath and his shoulders relax. He nods, and begins his sketching, eyes jumping from page to person, and says quietly, “I’m okay. I’m just really relieved. I owe you a lot for this.”  
  
“To be realistic, you’ve only just started on this one. It might still not work out.”  
  
“I know. But I’ve got a different feeling about this piece. I think this will be the best chance I’ve had since I first started.”  
  
Hanamaki raises his eyebrows. “You really know how to flatter a guy.”  
  
Matsukawa smiles. “I did tell you: I didn’t really have the right inspiration up until now.”  
  
“ _Wow_. My _ego_ right now, Matsukawa!”  
  
“I’m just saying the truth.”  
  
They fall into a comfortable sort of silence for a while, only accompanied by the sound of Matsukawa’s graphite pencil scratching softly. Hanamaki watches him: the way his eyes flicker up and down, the way his hands move with a long-practiced familiarity, the way his lips purse together in concentration. There’s an _elegance_ in the way he sits and sketches, so different to his awkwardness from the first time they met, Hanamaki realises. He’s watched Matsukawa sketch and paint before, of course, but he’s never fully noticed this sort of grace about him, and he finds it hard to look away.  
  
If he ever had any art skill to speak of, he’d paint this picture of Matsukawa. He’d paint this grace, this kindness, this warmth.  
  
“You know, you never did tell me why you thought I would make a good model,” says Hanamaki slowly.  
  
Matsukawa pauses in his sketching, and blinks.  
  
“Oh,” he says.  
  
He resumes sketching.  
  
“Oi,” says Hanamaki after a long pause.  
  
“It’s a little embarrassing.”  
  
“More embarrassing than scaring me at Uniqlo?”  
  
“ _Okay, okay_.” Matsukawa shakes his head when Hanamaki snickers. “It’s… when I first saw you, I thought, ‘that guy’s hair colour would be fun to paint’. But then I stopped to observe you a bit more and—well, you looked like you wanted to be anywhere but there. You looked tired. But then a customer stopped you and asked a question, and you smiled, and I thought…” He trails off, stops sketching again, bites the inside of his cheek, and his face turns pink.  
  
“Come on,” Hanamaki prompts. “We are in way too deep for you to start getting embarrassed again, Matsukawa.”  
  
Matsukawa groans and jams one palm against his eye. “I just thought you had the nicest smile,” he mumbles. “And I really wanted to paint th—”  
  
He stops when Hanamaki abruptly keels over to lie down on the couch seats, buries his face in his hands, and groans something that sounds like, “ _ohhhhhmyyyyygoooood_ ”.  
  
“ _Shut up_ ,” Matsukawa protests, grabbing an eraser off his table and lobbing it in Hanamaki’s direction. It bounces off his shoulder. Hanamaki starts laughing.  
  
“It was _that simple?_ ” he gasps, peeking at Matsukawa through his fingers. “You wanted to paint me because you thought I was _cute?_ ”  
  
“ _It was not that simple!_ ”  
  
“You thought I was _cute_ and you wanted to _paint_ m—”  
  
“ _Hanamaki!_ ”  
  
But Matsukawa is laughing too, despite his face being bright red now. Hanamaki thinks that ever since meeting him, there’s been more laughter in his life. Maybe Iwaizumi’s right. (Hanamaki makes a note to never, ever admit this to him.)  
  
“I was expecting something deep and meaningful,” Hanamaki wheezes after they calm down. “I’m not sure if this is better, but I’ll take it.”  
  
“I’m sorry I ever said anything,” says Matsukawa with a loud, exaggerated sigh.  
  
“Don’t be sorry, I _love_ this. Fast-forward a couple of years, you’ll be making headlines in museums, and I’ll brag and tell people, ‘hey, that artist thought I was cute that one time’—”  
  
“I am giving up on my ambitions in art from this moment on,” Matsukawa drones, still drawing and shaking his head. “I am retiring right now and becoming a hermit, living in the mountains.”  
  
“You’ll end up making nice pottery or something and selling it to tourists, who come flocking to buy your wares.”  
  
“Nah, I really suck at anything to do with ceramics.”  
  
They grin at each other, and then Hanamaki’s smile eases into something more thoughtful.  
  
“I think you couldn’t ever give up on your art, even if you tried,” he says. When Matsukawa stops sketching, he adds quietly, “But that’s not all, is it?”  
  
Matsukawa’s shoulders slump, and he sighs and stares down at his sketchbook unseeingly. “It hasn’t been fun, being rejected over and over again,” he says. “I love what I do, and I can be an optimist when I put my mind to it, but… after three _long_ years and six rejected major works and my parents _continuously_ suggesting I should be looking for other work to do… more and more often, I’d ask myself whether or not this is actually okay, continuing like this. Whether it’s _worth it_. I’d have to keep reminding myself not to give up, but it’s hard not to lose some of that optimism after a while.”  
  
“You never mentioned anything about this,” says Hanamaki slowly. “You told me that _I_ put up a front, but I didn’t really think you were the type to.”  
  
“I guess I just didn’t want to guilt-trip you into helping me out,” Matsukawa answers, resuming his sketching. “But honestly, I would’ve been okay, even if you never agreed to it. Just hanging out with you was nice. You’ve kept me going, you know?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Yeah. Whenever I dragged you to a gallery or showed you works I liked, it reminded me why I just can’t see myself doing anything else. You helped remind me why I love it. That was already enough.”  
  
Hanamaki buries his face in his hands. “ _What the fuck, Matsukawa, that’s disgusting sweet._ ”  
  
“I’m serious!”  
  
“That’s kind of the problem!” Hanamaki points at him, now mock-accusingly. “And you! Since we started hanging out, everyone I know has been telling me that I look more relaxed and happier, did you know that? Even Iwaizumi said that I’ve chilled out more.”  
  
“Didn’t you say things are better because you’ve got a bit more quiet time to yourself at home?”  
  
“Well, that’s _part_ of the reason, sure. But, anyway, I think we make a good team, don’t you?”  
  
Matsukawa grins. “Yeah, I think so.”  
  
They fall back into a comfortable silence. Matsukawa continues sketching while Hanamaki scrolls through his phone, occasionally having to remember to stop and look up so Matsukawa isn’t always drawing his face from one angle.  
  
Hanamaki watches Matsukawa watching him, and he thinks that it really is just like that time he had sketched Oikawa and Iwaizumi over their shabu-shabu dinner, which feels like years ago now. There’s an intimacy about all this that Hanamaki hadn’t really expected, but feels that maybe he should have. He has left himself open, in a sense; Matsukawa would sketch and paint him in a different light to the ways Hanamaki has known himself all this time, portraying him in a way that only _Matsukawa_ saw—unknown and unfamiliar. The walls Hanamaki had built around him would come crumbling down with graphite and ink and colour.  
  
He is okay with this.  
  
“Hey,” says Hanamaki quietly. “I’m glad you didn’t give up on this.”  
  
Again, Matsukawa pauses in his drawing, and looks up at Hanamaki with raised eyebrows and a smirk. “Are you getting _sentimental_ on me now, _Hanamaki-kun?_ ”  
  
Hanamaki sighs. “Never mind.”  
  
“I might have to report this to Iwaizu—”  
  
“Oh, _hell no!_ Don’t you dare!” Hanamaki looks horrified. “I will change my mind about the painting!”  
  
Matsukawa cracks up laughing. It’s a nice sight, Hanamaki thinks in between his indignant pointing and yelling at him. It is before this sight, that he lets his guard down.  
  
(He is okay with this.)  
  
“Shit, it’s already dark out,” Matsukawa says after a while, looking outside. “Sorry, I didn’t notice. Want to grab dinner now?”  
  
“If you’re just trying distracting me from your _betrayal_ …”  
  
“I am. Is it working?”  
  
“It is. I’m actually really hungry. But are you finished with the sketches?”  
  
“Yeah, I think have enough for today. I might need some more when you have some free time, but I’ll see.”  
  
“You know where to find me,” says Hanamaki. Matsukawa smiles and ducks his head, now a little embarrassed.  
  
“I’m glad I didn’t give up on this, either,” he says. “Seriously, thank you so much.”  
  
“Stop,” says Hanamaki. “It’s too soon. Don’t lose your focus.”  
  
“Okay, okay. I’ll let you know how it goes.” Matsukawa closes his sketchbook. “So… let’s go?”  
  
Hanamaki nods, warm. “Let’s go.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
It’s about three days later that Matsukawa invites Hanamaki out for dinner so he can sketch him some more, but this time, he also drags Oikawa and Iwaizumi along, and they eat at his favourite restaurant that served decently priced burgers and steaks.  
  
It’s hard to tell how the exhibition piece was coming along, Hanamaki thinks as he watches Matsukawa dig into his favourite dish of hamburg steak with cheese in the middle. Matsukawa had just smiled and shook his head when Hanamaki asked, and did the same whenever Oikawa and Iwaizumi joined in trying to wheedle him into showing them his sketches of Hanamaki. Matsukawa would draw in between snippets of conversation and bites of his meal, and then close his book again to resume eating.  
  
Well, however curious Hanamaki was, Matsukawa would show them when the time was right. He pushes the thought aside and focuses on Oikawa telling them a silly work story, laughing along. Once again, Matsukawa is sketching him, book tilted so none of them can see the contents on the pages.  
  
It’s one of their stranger dinners together, but it’s fun, nevertheless. Afterwards, when they settle the bill and leave the restaurant, Matsukawa tucks his sketchbook back into his bag, and seems pleased.  
  
“I just wanted to sketch you when you’re hanging out with Iwaizumi and Oikawa,” he says when Hanamaki nudges him wordlessly for an answer. “You’ve known them for a lot longer, so the way you behave around them, compared to when you’re with just me, is a bit different. I wanted to get that other side of you.”  
  
“Was it that different?” Hanamaki asks.  
  
“A bit. It’s more subtle. I can’t really explain it.”  
  
“Do you know what the final painting’s going to look like, then?”  
  
“Not a clue. But it’s good to get more ideas.”  
  
“Hey, you two,” Oikawa calls from behind them. He and Iwaizumi had been play-wrestling, and had fallen back. “Iwa-chan and I want to get ice cream. He’s treating—”  
  
“NO, I’M NOT.”  
  
“—so wanna go?”  
  
“Sounds good,” says Hanamaki. “Iwaizumi, I want two scoops.”  
  
“You can shove those two scoops up—”  
  
“ _Iwa-chan_.”  
  
“I’ll head off,” says Matsukawa grinning. “I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”  
  
“You’re leaving me with _them?_ ” says Hanamaki, pointing to Oikawa and Iwaizumi with a look of mock-horror on his face. “Matsukawa Issei, I thought you were _different!_ ”  
  
“I believe in you.”  
  
“This _betrayal_ —”  
  
“Iwa-chan will buy you an extra scoop if you stop whinging, Makki.”  
  
“ _OIKAWA_.”  
  
“You know what, Matsukawa, never mind, you can keep betraying m— _GET OFF ME, YOU GORILLA!_ ”  
  
Iwaizumi grabs Hanamaki in a headlock, and they wrestle for a bit. Matsukawa waves at them as he begins to walk off, grinning.  
  
“Enjoy your ice cream!”  
  
They wave back at him, with Hanamaki elbowing Iwaizumi away in the process. He watches Matsukawa’s retreating back for a while as Oikawa and Iwaizumi decide which ice cream shop to go to.  
  
Matsukawa looks a little taller. He’s walking straighter than he usually does. Hanamaki had never really noticed it before, but now that he thinks about it, Matsukawa usually walks with a bit of a slouch. There’s a slight confidence in his steps today—an eagerness to work on his project. This is also a nice sight.  
  
( _More and more often, I’d ask myself whether or not this is actually okay, continuing my art like this. Whether it’s_ worth _it_.)  
  
“Oi, stop staring,” says Iwaizumi, jolting Hanamaki from his thoughts. “Unless you’re thinking about running after him, in which case, be my guest. Less ice cream for me to buy.”  
  
Hanamaki turns to him, eyes wide. “You really _are_ treating me to ice cream?!”  
  
Iwaizumi gives him a deadpan look. “If you buy your own ice cream, I won’t tell Matsukawa about your big crush on hi—”  
  
“ _SHUT_ —”  
  
Hanamaki swipes at him and Iwaizumi swats him away. They engage in another play-wrestle, and Oikawa is laughing, voice clear in the night.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
Hanamaki stops by Matsukawa's place after work a few days later, bringing dinner he had bought on the way, for little reason other than _he just felt like it was a nice thing to do._  
  
He knocks on the door, and the moment Matsukawa opens it and catches sight of Hanamaki, he slams it shut again.  
  
“Ah, shit, sorry! Hold on a second!” Matsukawa calls out, to Hanamaki’s bewilderment. He can hear muffled shuffling and scraping sounds, before footsteps draw near and Matsukawa opens the door again. “Yes, sorry about that, I was working on my painting—your painting? Our painting… I mean, I don’t know—”  
  
“Your painting,” says Hanamaki with a bemused grin.  
  
“Well,” says Matsukawa, smiling sheepishly. “Anyway, it’s nowhere near finished and I can’t let you see it yet, so I had to hide it. I didn’t know you were coming over.”  
  
“Sorry, I actually completely forgot to call ahead, but…” Hanamaki holds up the plastic bag in his hand. “I bought over dinner… curry rice! The place I got it from had a special going on. I figured you’d be too busy to go out and eat.”  
   
“Oh my god,” says Matsukawa as he takes the bag from Hanamaki and peeks into it. “Oh my god, marry me. You’re amazing. Come in, come in, I’ll get you tea or something… ah, no, I ran out of tea… I have coffee, though… juice…”  
  
He’s so busy marvelling at the sight of the food in the bag and talking to himself, that he hasn’t noticed Hanamaki turning beet-red at his ‘ _marry me_ ’ comment. Hanamaki stands frozen in the doorway for a handful of seconds more, before he manages to pull himself together and actually enter.  
  
“Did you, uh, have work today?” he asks, kicking his shoes off.  
  
“Yeah, I was at Lawson,” says Matsukawa, pulling the bowls out from the bag and setting them onto his coffee table. “The owners at the art store actually told me to take a bit of time off so I could work on the painting.”  
  
“Nice.”  
  
“They’re really excited for me. I’m starting to feel some pressure.”  
  
“Not nice?”  
  
“We’ll… see.” Matsukawa shrugs. “Want some orange juice?”  
  
“I’ll get it. You start eating first.”  
  
“Thanks for the food!”  
  
“You’re acting like you haven’t eaten all day. You didn’t skip lunch, did you?”  
  
“No, I ate. But it was weirdly busy today, so it was just something small,” says Matsukawa around a mouthful of rice. “I’m glad you stopped by, actually. I was going to go buy something cheap and quick, but I couldn’t decide on what to get. But taking a break and just hanging out with you is always nice. Thanks!”  
  
Hanamaki almost drops the two glasses he’s holding. “Uh. No problem.”  
  
“Need a hand?”  
  
“No, no, I’m… good.”  
  
Matsukawa digs into his meal again, and Hanamaki watches him for a bit. This is obviously not the first time they’ve had dinner over at each other’s place, but there’s something ridiculously _domestic_ about today. It’s nice, comfortable, easy—something he wouldn’t mind getting used to, if the chance ever came to him in the future—  
  
No, no, nope, he’s jumping ahead of himself. He’s probably just hungry. And he still hasn’t poured the juice, which he now does, hastily, and brings both glasses to the table.  
  
“So, uh,” Hanamaki says, breaking apart his chopsticks, “what happens after you finish the painting? Do you take it over to show them or something?”  
  
“Oh.” Matsukawa swallows his mouthful and takes a drink of juice. “I have to take photos of the piece and email those to the Collective. I have a friend who works at a photography studio, so she’s helping me out with that when I finish.”  
  
“So, they’ll make their choices from the photos then?” says Hanamaki. He is picking out pieces of onions and dumping them into Matsukawa’s bowl; in return, Matsukawa swaps some chunks of carrots over.  
  
“If the Collective likes it enough, it’ll be accepted into the exhibition, but sometimes, they’ll ask for a second-round evaluation, so… who knows. If I’m lucky…”  
  
Hanamaki smiles. “It’s not luck if either of those happen, though; it’ll be because you did good work. Wait, take some more onions.”  
  
“You are too kind. Have some more carrots.”  
  
“It’s not about me being kind, it’s about you working hard. Do you want some potato?”  
  
“Sto-o-op, I’m not even half-way done. Nah, I have enough potato. Pickles?”  
  
“You’ll do fine, I know it. No, thanks, I’m good.”  
  
“Actually, I had a dream last night that I was painting a hyper-realistic painting of a packet of Calbee chips, but I couldn’t get the shape of the bag right, and I woke up in a cold sweat. I think it was because earlier, we got a complaint from a customer about a mis-labelling.”  
  
Hanamaki looks at him mock-seriously. “You should sue and get compensation for either overtime, or for work-related trauma.”  
  
Matsukawa nods, also mock-serious. “My partner-in-crime, you have the best ideas.”  
  
They toast with their glasses of orange juice, and continue eating and chatting.  
  
The way Matsukawa looks reminds Hanamaki of watching him walk away with a lightness in his step. He looks more chipper, and though Hanamaki knows Matsukawa wasn’t lying when he said that _taking a break and just hanging out with you is always nice_ , Hanamaki also notes his familiar eagerness, his desire to return to work on his art.  
  
If Matsukawa could have more of this, the world would be all right, Hanamaki thinks. Someone living an ordinary daily life, in the grand scheme of things, but making wonderful things, moving forward with new projects in mind, doing his bit to bring colour to the world.  
  
( _Being ordinary doesn’t mean you can’t be impressive._ )  
  
Oh… yes, that’s right—Matsukawa had told him this ages ago. It had been for Hanamaki, at the time…  
  
Did Matsukawa know how impressive he himself was? Did people tell him enough? Did he believe it?  
  
Hanamaki sets his chopsticks down beside his empty bowl. He’d tell Matsukawa someday. Another day, when he isn’t so busy, but… he’d like to say something.  
  
“Thank you for the food,” says Matsukawa with a content sigh. “Let me know how much I owe you.”  
  
“Don’t worry about it,” says Hanamaki. “You’re doing me a favour, actually. See, it’s Iwaizumi’s turn to make dinner tonight, and Oikawa was craving grilled eel, so Iwaizumi decided he’d try to make some, but the thing is, for some reason, he is _so fucking bad at cooking with eel_. No, don’t _laugh_ , this is _serious_ , Matsukawa! All his attempts to cook eel in the past have ended in _disaster_. He’ll destroy half the kitchen tonight, and they’ll end up going out to eat after all. I had to escape here for my own safety.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” says Matsukawa, shaking his head and grinning.  
  
Hanamaki checks the time. “Actually, I should be getting home. I need to see how bad the damage is, and whether our landlord’s evicted us yet.”  
  
“Go ahead. Oh, don’t worry about the rubbish, I’ll throw all that away.”  
  
Matsukawa walks downstairs with him, citing a need to stretch his legs. Hanamaki can’t help but feel slightly disappointed as he nears the street. Matsukawa’s right: taking a break and hanging out with each other is just… _nice_.  
  
“If I show up here tomorrow with what’s left of all my belongings, you’ll know what happened,” Hanamaki says to him, deadpan. Matsukawa smiles and leans against the railing of the staircase.  
  
“You’re welcome any time. And it’ll be cramped, but Iwaizumi and Oikawa are also welcome, but I am implementing a ban on eel.”  
  
“I’ll keep you updated.”  
  
“Tell them I said hi.”  
  
“Will do.” With a nod, Hanamaki starts to head off. “Good luck with the painting—let me know if I can help with anything.”  
  
“You already have,” Matsukawa calls with a wave. That renewed eagerness returns in his smile, and Hanamaki thinks, with one more look over his shoulder, that the world is all right.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
It’s two days from the exhibition’s submissions deadline date, when Hanamaki, on a lunch break, receives a missed call from Matsukawa over an hour ago.

  
**From: Hanamaki**  
sorry i missed ur call! what happened?? i hope it’s not life-threatening  
  
**From: Matsukawa**  
I just submitted my piece for the exhibition and I feel like my stomach is about to run away from me  
I guess that is semi-life-threatening  
  
**From: Hanamaki**  
ohhh congrats on completing it!! u worked hard!!! how does the final piece look?  
did u make me extra handsome?  
  
**From: Matsukawa**  
idk anymore, I’ve stared at it for too long and I can’t tell  
  
**From: Hanamaki**  
wrong answer!!!!! Σ(ﾟ∀´(┗┐ヽ(･∀･ )ﾉ  
  
**From: Matsukawa**  
you didn’t look terrible  
  
**From: Hanamaki**  
i can't deal with u  
seriously tho what did u think?  
  
**From: Matsukawa**  
it’s a bit embarrassing  
  
**From: Hanamaki**  
excuse me  
  
**From: Matsukawa**  
no I meant like… when I finished it, I looked at it and it made me feel really warm?  
I was really happy with it  
  
**From: Hanamaki**  
u could’ve just said that first!!!!!!!!  Σ(ﾟ∀´(┗┐ヽ(･∀･ )ﾉ  
  
**From: Matsukawa**  
sorry, I’m just very emotionally high-strung atm  
  
**From: Hanamaki**  
i can’t believe u……. go take a walk and get some fresh air  
don’t make me come over there  
becos i can’t  
i literally can’t, i only have a few mins of my lunch break  
  
**From: Matsukawa**  
Yes, yes, sorry  
Did you want to see a photo of the painting?  
  
**From: Hanamaki**  
no it’s embarrassing  
  
**From: Matsukawa**  
excuse me  
  
**From: Hanamaki**  
no i meant like  
why are u like this  
it’s becos it’s my own face u know  
  
**From: Matsukawa**  
actually I wouldn’t have shown you even if you asked, not until I get an answer from the Collective. I shouldn’t have offered sorry m(_ _)m  
  
**From: Hanamaki**  
Σ(ﾟ∀´(┗┐ヽ(･∀･ )ﾉ  
when do u find out btw  
  
**From: Matsukawa**  
my bad m(_ _)m  
not for another 3 weeks or something after deadline i think…  
so i have to try not to think about it  
  
**From: Hanamaki**  
ew…. ok well u can start by getting food so go treat urself to something nice  
  
**From: Matsukawa**  
ok ok going to eat now  
  
**From: Hanamaki**  
enjoy  
i’m proud of u  
dumbass  
  
**From: Matsukawa**  
stop  
  
**From: Hanamaki**  
so proud!!!!!!!!!!!  
  
**From: Matsukawa**  
bye!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
Three and a half weeks later:  
  
  
  
**From: Matsukawa**  
my painting made it into the exhibition

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
There’s something exhilarating about locking up his Uniqlo store so fast that Hanamaki might have accidentally broken something, and then turning his heel and dashing down the streets with borderline recklessness towards the station. The kaleidoscopic lights of the city blur past him, reminding Hanamaki briefly of the more abstract pieces of art he had seen in galleries. He thinks he might understand them a little more, now. Maybe. Sort of. (Probably not.)  
  
Hopping off the train, Hanamaki sprints the entire way to Matsukawa’s place. He’s never been a particularly strong runner, but at this moment, he felt that there was no force of nature that could possibly slow him down. Matsukawa’s words spur him on: _my painting made it into the exhibition._ Hanamaki grins, so hard that his face hurts, and he resists the urge to shout with joy, with victory, with pride. They had waited almost a month for an answer, and _Matsukawa’s painting had made it into the exhibition._  
  
He’s out of breath when he arrives, but he looks up and sees Matsukawa sitting on the steps leading up to his apartment, lit up by the surrounding streetlights and lights from the apartment building. His face breaks out into a smile at the sight of Hanamaki. Matsukawa stands and Hanamaki moves toward him, both somewhat shakily, and they throw their arms around each other and burst into laughter.  
  
“You did it,” Hanamaki gasps. “Congrats—Matsukawa—”  
  
“Thank you so much,” says Matsukawa, almost in a whisper in his ear. “I feel like I’m dreaming, holy _shit_.”  
  
Matsukawa’s hugs are really nice, Hanamaki thinks in a daze. It’s the kind of hearty, warm, _complete_ hug that’s hard to pull away from, and he can’t help but feel disappointed when Matsukawa does let him go. Matsukawa sinks back onto the steps, running his fingers through his hair with another shaky laugh, and Hanamaki sits a step below him.  
  
“So, what happened?” he asks. “How did you find out?”  
  
“They sent me an email a few hours ago,” says Matsukawa. “I wasn’t sure if I was just imagining it. I’m _still_ not sure. They didn’t ask for a second-round evaluation…”  
  
“What did they say?”  
  
“They just said congratulations, and that I had to bring the actual piece into their office sometime within the next two weeks, so I’m going to head in soon. They won’t announce the competition winners until the exhibition opens though, and that’s not for another _two months_.” Matsukawa pulls out his phone, taps at it, and then hands it to Hanamaki. “Tell me I’m not just imagining things.”  
  
“You’re not,” Hanamaki says with a grin after he reads the email. “You’re definitely not imagining things.” Matsukawa gives a loud exhale in relief, and slumps forward to press his forehead against his knees.  
  
“Thank _god_. I would’ve started crying if it was just a dream.” Hanamaki snickers and pats his back. Matsukawa raises his head and adds, “Let me treat you to a meal, to thank you for everything. A luxuriously cheap-ish bowl of ramen. I’ll even throw in some gyoza.”  
  
“What, right now?”  
  
“Yeah, if you haven’t eaten yet.”  
  
“I haven’t, but you don’t need to treat me.”  
  
“I know, but I _want_ to.”  
  
“ _Matsukawa_ —”  
  
“I’m serious,” says Matsukawa. “Let me have this. Please?”  
  
“Who says _please_ when they’re trying to treat someone to food?”  
  
“ _Please_.”  
  
Hanamaki can’t stop smiling. “You can treat me to ramen, and I’ll buy the gyoza.”  
  
“I guess that’s okay.”  
  
“Come on, get up,” says Hanamaki.  
  
Matsukawa shakes his head, still grinning ear-to-ear. “I can’t, my legs are jelly. Help me up.”  
  
“ _Seriously_.” Hanamaki stands up, and grabs Matsukawa’s arms, and after a minute of Hanamaki tugging at him and yelling for him to put in some effort to stand, Matsukawa pushes himself up, off the steps and onto solid ground, and they stumble, clutching each other and laughing again, like giddy children.  
  
Hanamaki considers, briefly, not letting go of him, and the thought sends jolts of something like electricity through him—considers, without any ounce of preparation, blurting out whatever’s written on his heart: a chaotic mix of warmth and joy and colour that Matsukawa might piece together and understand, but Hanamaki does not.  
  
Matsukawa lets go of him first, calming down slightly. “I was thinking of going to that place we went to a few weeks back, near the post office—does that sound okay? If you wanted to go somewhere else, though…”  
  
“It’s fine,” says Hanamaki, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Anywhere’s fine.”  
  
They start walking, with Matsukawa listing a few other places in the area they could eat at, and Hanamaki listening contently. He pushes all those other thoughts away, instead allowing himself to simply enjoy Matsukawa’s company. Today, they would celebrate his hard work.  
  
_One thing at a time._ He could be patient. He could enjoy this for now.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
It’s a few days later, when Hanamaki, Oikawa, and Iwaizumi are at home and lounging around before bed, that Hanamaki tells them about Matsukawa’s acceptance into the exhibition, to which Oikawa and Iwaizumi immediately whip out their phones and send him messages of congratulations, apologies that Hanamaki took so long to tell them, and Iwaizumi adding (completely unnecessarily, in Hanamaki’s humble opinion) how sorry he is that Matsukawa had to work with Hanamaki, of all people, and that he hopes the journey was worth the pain.  
  
“So you’ll be going with him to the opening night?” says Oikawa with a grin as Hanamaki and Iwaizumi finish wrestling with each other.  
  
Hanamaki stares blankly at him as he returns to his position on the opposite end of the couch, retrieving his laptop. “What opening night?”  
  
“Opening night. You know, the… opening night of the exhibition.” Oikawa frowns at him, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Galleries have them all the time! Mattsun hasn’t asked you?”  
  
“He hasn’t mentioned anything.”  
  
“Oh… well…” Oikawa shrugs helplessly.  
  
“Maybe there isn’t an opening night,” says Iwaizumi. “Don’t think about it too much.”  
  
“I’m not,” Hanamaki protests. “You guys are.”  
  
“All right, all right.” Iwaizumi stretches with a yawn. “Anyway, it’s late, and we all have work tomorrow. I’m turning in.”  
  
“Goodnight, old man,” says Hanamaki, ducking when Iwaizumi reaches over to swipe at his head.  
  
“Oikawa?”  
  
“Mm, I’ll go take a shower first. Goodnight, guys.”  
  
Hanamaki stays seated, staring blankly at his screen for a moment, until he can hear the bathroom and bedroom doors shut. He runs his fingers roughly through his hair, and then types ‘ _sendai collective exhibition_ ’ into his browser’s search bar. The first link leads straight to the Collective’s website, which immediately shows details of the upcoming exhibition… including details of the opening night, with ‘ _by invitation only_ ’ written in smaller text under the heading.  
  
Hanamaki feels a funny little twisting sensation in his stomach. So there really was an opening night. But surely Matsukawa would have said something by now? But maybe Matsukawa wasn’t invited to bring a plus-one? Maybe he was embarrassed? Maybe he just didn’t have a chance to ask Hanamaki yet? That didn’t make sense, though, given that they talk or message each other almost every day. Or maybe—  
  
Hanamaki slaps his laptop closed.  
  
Nope, he was getting nowhere thinking like this. And it wasn’t like Matsukawa was _obligated_ to invite him. Hanamaki was being unfair; Matsukawa deserved better.  
  
He sighs.  
  
Well. Maybe he _was_ a bit jealous, assuming Matsukawa was allowed a plus-one and didn’t invite Hanamaki. But that was okay, wasn’t it? He was only human, after all; he never claimed to be a saint. But he probably should do something about this.  
  
Hanamaki’s just tilting his head back against the couch and staring up at the ceiling, wondering what he should do next, when his phone chimes, indicating he had received a message, because _of course_ he does, _of course_ the universe has this weird sense of timing at the most mundane of times, _of course_ he’d get some sort of sign to not overthink things like this.  
  
  
  
**From: Matsukawa**  
Actually… are you free tomorrow evening?  
I’d like to talk to you if that’s ok  
  
  
  
Taking a deep breath and whispering an “ _okay_ ”, Hanamaki types a reply.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
When he next visits Matsukawa after work on Wednesday evening, Hanamaki finds several small watercolour paintings laid out all around his apartment and covering most flat surfaces, looking like Matsukawa’s stall at the market had come to life and invaded the place. He stares around, bewildered.  
  
“Have you been stress-painting?” he demands. Matsukawa, in the middle of hastily moving some of the paintings lying on the couch over to his desk, makes a small distressed noise in the back of his throat.  
  
“Maybe?”  
  
“What are you stressed about? The Collective’s competition?”  
  
“No, no, I’m not actually thinking about the competition much. I’m just… well…”  
  
Hanamaki stares at him, concerned. “Are you okay?”  
  
There’s something like guilt on Matsukawa’s face. His shoulders sag, and Hanamaki thinks he looks a bit like a sad puppy.  
  
“Matsuka—”  
  
“You may have been wondering,” says Matsukawa, leaning against his desk, “why I haven’t invited you to the exhibition’s opening night yet…”  
  
Was he that predictable?  
  
“Oh… it doesn’t bother me whether I’m there or not,” Hanamaki says, not quite honestly.  
  
“It’s… my parents will be there,” Matsukawa mumbles, now looking down at the floor. “I told them about the exhibition, and invited them to the opening night and… they said they’d go. They sounded surprised, but I think they were happy for me. They didn’t even mention anything about me trying out a different career.”  
  
Hanamaki’s staring at him with wide eyes. “Oh,” he says in understanding. “ _Oh. Congratulations!_ ”  
  
“Thanks,” says Matsukawa quietly. “It means so much me. But the thing is, I don’t think I could handle it if all three of you were there; I’d probably pass out. And in this case, I chose my parents over you—and you’re the entire reason I’m even in the exhibition!—and… I’m sorry. I want to make it up to you, but—”  
  
“Hey,” says Hanamaki, and Matsukawa looks up at him uncertainly. Hanamaki shakes his head and smiles, and is relieved to find that it doesn’t feel fake in the slightest. “I’m not mad, dumbass. _Really_. Is that what you’ve been stressing about? Telling me about the opening night?”  
  
“That, mostly, and also because of my parents going.”  
  
“You know what you need?” says Hanamaki. “A break. Put your painting aside for a while, and let’s go grab dinner and walk around for a bit. You need a few hours away from the paint fumes.”  
  
“It’s watercolour and gouache; they’re not that bad,” says Matsukawa, but he’s smiling back a little now.  
  
“Come on. I found a new udon place nearby that looked really good. When was the last time you had a proper meal?”  
  
“I’m _fine_ ,” says Matsukawa. “I had breakfast and lunch.”  
  
“And what did you have for lunch?”  
  
“I had a… ham and cheese roll.”  
  
When Hanamaki squints at him, Matsukawa leans away hastily. “It was… a… very filling ham and ch—”  
  
Hanamaki seizes his sleeve and begins to drag him out.  
  
About an hour later, their stomachs are pleasantly full of food. Matsukawa actually looks quite a bit more relaxed, but Hanamaki still refuses to let him return home just yet (“Your paintings are not going to paint themselves some legs and run away, so _chill_.”), and so they hop onto a train and wander aimlessly through Sendai City’s centre for a little while.  
  
It’s a beautiful night, just warm enough to be comfortable. They stroll leisurely down the streets together, through the colours from lights and street signs, skirting around people, pausing to mull over current sales or tempting snacks. Eventually, Hanamaki buys them both piping hot dorayaki from a snack stand, and they stop to lean against the railing by the side of the road to eat them.  
  
“Thanks for this,” says Matsukawa with a content sigh through a mouthful of red bean and pancake. “You were right, I really needed a break.”  
  
“And food.”  
  
“I’m usually much better than this! I was just…” Matsukawa shrugs vaguely.  
  
“Stressed,” Hanamaki finishes for him, more understanding in his voice. “I get it. You’re only human. It’s okay.”  
  
“Yeah… I still don’t know how it’s going to go with my parents, but I feel better about it now, so… thanks.”  
  
“It’s fine, dumbass,” Hanamaki chides gently. “Things will work out. Just… go easy on yourself, okay? You’ve done what you can, but you can’t handle this whole exhibition thing to the end if you’re not taking care of yourself. What?” He notices Matsukawa giving him a curious sort of smile. “Okay, no—I recognise that look, don’t you dare, that’s your _Hanamaki-would-make-a-good-teacher_ look. Stop it.”  
  
Matsukawa laughs. “ _Amazing_.”  
  
“ _Horrible_.” Hanamaki takes a large mouthful of dorayaki and adds in a muffled voice, “That was completely left-field and unfair.”  
  
“Come on, we’ve talked so much about my art stuff—”  
  
“Which is fine with me."  
  
“Can you seriously tell me that you never want to consider a teaching gig ever again?”  
  
“If you’re not going to finish your dorayaki, I’ll have it.”  
  
“You’re not getting my dorayaki.”  
  
“Ugh.”  
  
“One of my co-workers at Lawson has a daughter who wants to study education at Tohoku—”  
  
“I went to Tohoku, too.”  
  
They fall silent. Hanamaki laments finishing his dorayaki too quickly, and considers making Matsukawa buy him a second one. He can feel him staring holes into the side of his face.  
  
Hanamaki kept running away. Matsukawa never did. There’s a slight twisting feeling in Hanamaki’s stomach when he thinks, _look at where we each are now._  
  
With a sigh, he turns his head and looks back at Matsukawa, who’s watching Hanamaki like he can read him like an open book, like he knows how to pick him apart at the seams, and Hanamaki—he feels less annoyed at this than he probably should have.  
  
“You liked it, though,” says Matsukawa quietly. “Didn’t you?”  
  
“I did,” Hanamaki answers, affirms in a breath, and now that he thinks about it, this may have been the first time he has ever done so. “But I’m not brave like you, jackass. It’s not—”  
  
“I’m not brave, either. I’m just stubborn.”  
  
“Then, I’m not as stubborn as you.”  
  
“Nah, you’re pretty stubborn… between us both, I think we have enough stubbornness for a whole crowd of people.”  
  
“Yeah, I can see that,” Hanamaki agrees. Matsukawa huffs a laugh.  
  
“Think about it, won’t you?” he says.  
  
Hanamaki crumples his dorayaki wrapper in his hand, pushes himself away from the railing, and continues walking down the street; Matsukawa follows suit and falls into step beside him. “That’s kind of my problem,” says Hanamaki. “I thought about it too much. I was over-thinking, and I panicked. That’s why I walked out.”  
  
“That was a couple of years ago though,” says Matsukawa. “The _you_ of back then, and the _you_ of right now are very different people, aren’t they?” He stops again, and so does Hanamaki, staring back at him impassively, a few steps away. “You know… I thought about it, and in a way, it might be similar to painting? Sometimes, I look at the works I’ve done more recently that I’m proud of, and I think, I would never have been able to do this three years ago. I didn’t have the right skill sets back then, and the right mindset. But I’ve changed since then. I’ve learned more about myself, I’ve learned more about my art, and I think I’ve grown. I can paint things that I think the _me_ of three years ago would’ve been proud of.  
  
“Maybe the timing just wasn’t right three years ago,” Matsukawa continues. He looks away and shoves his hands in his pockets, scuffing his shoe against the ground. “And maybe the current _you_ has something that the past _you_ didn’t have, because people are always changing. So I think… it’s like you said: go easy on yourself. Stop beating yourself up over a decision you made three years ago. It’s okay to forgive yourself for walking away, and moving on—maybe even try being a teacher again.”  
  
On the road beside them, cars drive by. Around them, people walk on. They can still hear the dorayaki stall owner occasionally clap his hands and shout about his fresh, sweet treats; further up the street, a young woman is promoting a ramen special; a salaryman walks by, talking loudly about some dropping shares; a group of old ladies part ways in front of a sushi restaurant they had just exited, promising to catch up with each other again soon.  
  
It’s bright, colourful, and warm in a way that has nothing to do with the outside temperature. There’s a funny feeling in Hanamaki’s chest that he doesn’t know how to describe, but it reminds him of sitting on a flight of stairs and waiting for a certain someone to come home; of being in a sunny room and watching an artist work with grace; of things making sense; of finding a place outside his comfort zone that he wouldn’t mind reaching for. For a brief moment, Hanamaki wonders what his life would be like now if he had met Matsukawa much, much sooner.  
  
He pushes the thought away. He forgives himself this.  
  
“When does the exhibition end?” Hanamaki asks. Caught off-guard, Matsukawa looks surprised.  
  
“What? Th—oh, right. I’ll double-check for you, but I think it’ll be open for about a month.”  
  
“Okay,” says Hanamaki. And then: “Thank you.”  
  
Matsukawa’s expression softens, and he nods.  
  
Around them, the world keeps moving.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
Two months come and go in the blink of an eye. Hanamaki doesn’t see Matsukawa at all in the week leading up to the opening night; Matsukawa’s parents are in town, and he is playing tour guide, and there are some other preparations he has to make in time for the exhibition.  
  
Hanamaki spends the Saturday of the opening night having dinner and drinks with some of his co-workers, which involved talking about relationships and teasing Hanamaki good-naturedly about Matsukawa, gossip about some of the other Uniqlo stores, going for a possible day-trip up to Aomori, and then gradually turns into a long ranting session about the more annoying customers who have stopped by their store.  
  
Matsukawa is not at the market on Sunday. Hanamaki supposes he’s tired from the opening night, but can’t help feeling disappointed at the sight of the empty space that’s usually full of colourful paintings. He buys his groceries and leaves, much earlier than he usually does.  
  
Nothing happens for most of Monday and Tuesday. He and Matsukawa don’t call or send messages to each other, and now that Hanamaki thinks about it, the last time they had done so was early Saturday afternoon, when Hanamaki had wished Matsukawa good luck for the opening night. When was the last time they had properly hung out together? He considers the possibility that Matsukawa’s parents are still in town, and that he’s spending time with them, which is—well, good, great. He’s happy for him, honestly, it’s just… it’s just…  
  
Was it _always_ this _boring_ before he met Matsukawa?  
  
It wasn’t like Hanamaki didn’t have other friends, but aside from Oikawa and Iwaizumi, he didn’t _click_ with others as well as he did with Matsukawa. It was so _easy-going_ and so _comfortable_ with him, more so than with anyone else, and—  
  
“ _Ugh_ ,” he groans aloud on his way home after closing up at the store, earning a frown from a salaryman walking past. Hanamaki pulls out his phone and sends a text message to Matsukawa, consisting solely of a chestnut emoji and a peace sign emoji. He is vaguely wondering why the chestnut was even in his most recently-used emojis, when Matsukawa texts back with a croissant emoji and a hand-waving emoji. Smiling, Hanamaki pushes his phone back into his pocket.  
  
Later that evening, he looks up the opening hours of the Sendai Science Museum and texts Matsukawa again: _wanna go to that insects exhibition at the Science Museum sometime?_  
  
When he receives Matsukawa’s reply consisting of a bee emoji accompanied by three thumbs up emojis and a red double-exclamation mark, Hanamaki grins. This feels more normal.  
  
It’s Wednesday when Things™ finally happen.  
  
The morning is business as usual at his Uniqlo store, and Hanamaki is refolding some cropped leggings when he overhears two young women speaking quietly near him, but not quietly enough.  
  
“It’s definitely him.”  
  
“Yeah, for sure.”  
  
“Wow.”  
  
“I know, right?”  
  
Hanamaki can’t help himself. He looks up at them, and they meet his eyes for a split second before hastily averting their gazes and moving away to intently observe the jogger pants that are on sale on the next shelf. Before Hanamaki can ask them if they need help with anything, another customer flags him down and asks him about some long-sleeved shirts.  
  
It happens again not long after that, with a couple who stare at him from afar, and then hastily look away when Hanamaki looks up in their direction. He starts to feel a little self-conscious about this, and only realises what it’s been about when his store manager approaches him and asks, “Hanamaki, have you been to that art gallery yet? The one hosted by… Sendai Collectors or something?”  
  
“Collective,” Hanamaki corrects automatically. “Uh, I mean, not yet.”  
  
“Hmm.” His store manager eyes him thoughtfully. “You should go.”  
  
He probably should, Hanamaki thinks as he reorganises a rack of pleated skirts. After all, his portrait is in there somewhere. Now that he thinks about it, that might be the reason people were staring so shamelessly.  
  
It’s when he gets stared at for a third time by a more distinguished-looking older lady, that Hanamaki finally tells his co-workers that he’s taking a longer lunch break than usual, leaves the store, and begins heading towards the gallery’s address.  
  
It’s a reasonably well-lit gallery, with white walls and partitions, lights suspended from the ceiling, and enough art pieces that Hanamaki has no idea where to start. Like almost all the other galleries he’s been to, it’s echoey, with the quietness punctured by the sounds of slow, sharp footsteps against the floorboards from the handful of people already here and observing the art pieces like they know what they are doing. Being here by himself, without Matsukawa to deflect his witticisms and talk quietly beside him, is a little daunting, and it all makes Hanamaki feel like he’s interrupting something. He kind of wants to leave.  
  
But Matsukawa’s artwork is here somewhere—the piece that he’s put so much time and effort into. It’s here, waiting for Hanamaki.  
  
Hanamaki takes a deep breath. He can do this.  
  
He looks around for a bit, before his eyes fall onto a small sign that reads _Sendai Collective Exhibition: Competition Winners_ , and he heads towards it, because honestly, he has no idea where to go, so it might as well be there.  
  
The art piece with _FIRST PLACE_ written under its accompanying label is a long landscape oil painting, entitled _Command of the Maestro, Magic of the Orchestra_ , featuring an orchestra playing before a conductor, and painted from a low perspective. Much of the painting is impressively detailed, using sharply contrasting dark and light colours, and is accented by several small, vivid, and colourful details, giving it a whimsical and fun touch in what was otherwise a more subdued setting. Hanamaki kind of wants to touch the painting, reach right into it, fall into the orchestral music he can almost hear, but holds himself back.  
  
The second place piece, entitled _Battlefield_ , is a detailed sculptural piece on a pedestal, of a cat and a crow, both carved out of wood, facing off against each other amongst pieces of mundane garbage, all carefully formed from what looked like rusted metal. Both animals look almost alive in all their ferocity, and it takes Hanamaki more effort than he realises to tear his eyes away from them.  
  
And next to that, there is…  
  
Hanamaki’s echoing footsteps slow to a stop in front of the large watercolour painting. There's a rush of adrenaline that courses through him as he stares back at himself, and a warmth as though he has run into an old friend. The past couple of months have led to this—to Hanamaki, standing in this unfamiliar gallery, finding a familiar thing, lost for words and lost for thoughts.  
  
He is staring at Matsukawa’s painting, and in it, Hanamaki is sitting on some stairs, with one leg tucked close to him and his arms folded and resting on his knee. Part of his mouth is buried in his arms, but it’s still obvious, especially through his eyes, that he is smiling gently, almost shyly. The lines of his face are sharp, but the colours Matsukawa had used are soft in contrast, with bits of more vividly hued geometric shapes and details trickling here and there to give it a playful abstractness. Hanamaki in the painting looks happy, content, and Hanamaki in real life remembers that exact moment, sitting on the steps leading up to Matsukawa’s apartment and waiting for him to come home, when everything suddenly clicked, when it all just made _so much sense._  
  
He thinks of grace, of forgiveness, of celebrating, of reaching outside of his comfort zone, of trying again.  
  
Exhaling softly, Hanamaki forces himself to look away, to read its label underneath the painting:

  
  
**Matsukawa Issei**  
_Untitled_  
Watercolour and gouache on watercolour paper  
[ THIRD PLACE ]

  
  
Hanamaki’s mouth falls open slightly. _Third place_ , he reads again and again, until the words begin to look miswritten. Matsukawa had made third place. His first major exhibition-slash-competition, and he had made the Collective’s top three choices. Hanamaki feels something burst deep inside his chest, and it’s—  
  
“Is that you?” says a quiet voice beside him. Hanamaki jumps and looks down at the old smiling lady dressed in a simple suit with a red armband pinned around her upper sleeve that read _Gallery Staff_.  
  
“Uh,” says Hanamaki eloquently, “yes.”  
  
“It’s a wonderful piece,” she says with a nod, looking up at the portrait. “Personally, it’s my favourite here. Even for an amateur like me, I can tell it was painted with a lot of care. It’s like a love letter, disguised as a painting. Was it by someone special to you?”  
  
A blush flares in Hanamaki’s cheeks. “Uhhh…” is all he manages to get out.  
  
“Oh.” The lady’s smile widens slightly, like she just _knows_. “Please give my compliments to your special someone; it’s such a beautiful and warm piece.” And with a nod, she continues her leisurely patrol around the gallery, with Hanamaki staring after her and looking quite stunned.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
“Hey,” comes Matsukawa’s voice on Hanamaki’s phone’s loudspeaker, when Hanamaki calls him later that evening from home. His voice is pleasantly surprised, and at the sound of it, Hanamaki finds he can’t stop smiling.  
  
“Hey,” he answers. He can hear the bustle of the street Matsukawa is walking through in the background. “Did you just finish work?”  
  
“Yeah, I was at the art store today. How was your day? Busy?”  
  
“Pretty busy, yeah. Big sale, new line of shirts… I went to the exhibition on my break.”  
  
He thinks he can hear Matsukawa tripping over his own feet.  
  
“That’s… oh.”  
  
Hanamaki grins. “How much of a narcissist would I be, if I said I liked your painting the most?”  
  
Matsukawa laughs, and Hanamaki thinks that every time he does, he falls a little more in love. It’s sappy, even borderline ridiculous for someone as curt and cynical as Hanamaki could be, but he has been slowly letting himself fall and fall and fall.  
  
“I’m so glad,” says Matsukawa. “It’s one thing for the Collective to like it, but it’s something completely different for you, the subject, to like it, so… I’m really glad.”  
  
“It was… I mean, just ignoring the fact that it was me, it was just… so _alive_ , and so _warm_. It was honestly a really amazing painting.” Hanamaki pauses, runs his fingers through his hair, and adds, quietly, “I’m really proud of you.”  
  
He can hear the smile in Matsukawa’s voice, almost see it, because it’s something familiar to him, when Matsukawa says, just as quietly, “Thank you.”  
  
“The gallery staff that was on duty liked it too. She said it was her favourite, and told me to give you her compliments.”  
  
“You’re kidding.”  
  
Hanamaki snickers. “I’m not making it up. You can ask her yourself.”  
  
“I’m not asking her.”  
  
“I’ll record it. I’ll get it in writing.”  
  
“Please don’t harass the gallery staff; they’re all too nice and probably not paid enough.”  
  
“Spoilsport. Oh! How did it go with your parents?”  
  
Matsukawa gives something like a half-laugh, half-sigh of relief, and Hanamaki feels a familiar warmth blossom in his chest when he answers, “Good. Really good. They enjoyed the exhibition, and they really liked my painting. They actually asked if they could meet you.”  
  
“ _What_.”  
  
“I told them yes, eventually, but not yet.”  
  
“Oh my god.”  
  
“They were happy for me. They said they could see how far I had come and… they said they were glad that in the end, I didn’t listen to them and give up. I mean, my dad said that it didn’t mean I could slack off, and that I still have a lot of work to do, but he has a point, so…” Matsukawa takes a deep breath. “I think they’re starting to understand.”  
  
“That’s great,” says Hanamaki. “You deserve that. I’m really happy for you.”  
  
“I’m… thank you.”  
  
“And since you came third place, does that mean you were invited to join the Collective?”  
  
“Yeah. They gave me an invitation on the opening night and directed me to the paperwork. As of yesterday, I’m officially a member.”  
  
“Took them long enough.”  
  
“ _Hanamaki_.”  
  
“ _Matsukawaaa_.” Hanamaki smiles. “Congratulations.”  
  
“Thanks. How much of the rest of the exhibition did you see?”  
  
“I saw everything. The second-placed one was amazing. The… cat and crow one, with the metal pieces?”  
  
“Yeah, the details in that one were incredible! I never had much patience for any form of sculpting, so I was really impressed. And the cat and crow looked so _fierce_. I’ve always found it really hard to even _sketch_ emotions in animals, but that artist just managed to capture it so well, I thought it was…” Matsukawa trails off and clears his throat. “Uh, sorry, I keep getting carried away…”  
  
“Don’t apologise. Don’t ever apologise for that.”  
  
“Well…”  
  
“No, I mean it.” Hanamaki tilts his head back against the couch so he’s looking up at the ceiling. “You’re incredible, you know? You really… _light up_ , whenever you talk about things related to art. It’s obvious that you love it so much, and it makes me really happy, seeing you like that. I love that about you.”  
  
They both fall silent for a while, letting his words sink in slowly. Hanamaki thinks about his portrait, how he’s probably got the same expression on his face right now. He thinks about that look on Matsukawa’s face, the first time they had gone to an art gallery together—that feeling of _home_ , of _familiarity_ , even of _longing_ , in a way.  
  
“Thank you,” says Matsukawa, breaking the silence. “Seriously, thank you for everything.”  
  
“It was all you,” says Hanamaki. “You did all the work, you did everything.”  
  
“You took a chance on me, even after I made what was probably the worst first impression in all of Miyagi—”  
  
“For the record, I was completely ready to clobber you over the head with my big bottle of orange juice if you did turn out to be a creep after all.”  
  
“Effective. And understandable.”  
  
“That said…” says Hanamaki, softer. “I’m glad I did take that chance on you in the end. Since meeting you, my life has been… more colourful. More _fun_. And apparently, I’ve been more cheerful? My cool, lone wolf reputation is ruined, so thanks for that.”  
  
Matsukawa laughs, and it fills the room. Hanamaki finds himself wishing he could bottle sound.  
  
“Thank you,” Matsukawa says again.  
  
“Stop, you’ve worked hard,” says Hanamaki. “Did you want to come over today? Oikawa and Iwaizumi are taking their time, but apparently they’re picking up pizza for dinner on their way home. We could celebrate.”  
  
Matsukawa groans. “I _love_ pizza. But I can’t today; I promised I’d run an errand for my boss from the art shop, so I have to get that done. Maybe another time?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“I need to catch my train now, so… I’ll speak to you soon?”  
  
“Sure. Take care getting home.”  
  
“Tell Oikawa and Iwaizumi I said hi.”  
  
“Will do. See you soon.”  
  
“See you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
By Matsukawa’s invitation, Hanamaki is in his apartment a few days later, sitting comfortably cross-legged on his couch like he’d done so many times before. Matsukawa steps away from his kitchenette with two steaming mugs of coffee, and hands one to Hanamaki, who takes it with thanks. He watches as Matsukawa perches on his stool and blows into his mug.  
  
“You look good,” Hanamaki remarks suddenly, and Matsukawa looks at him in surprise.  
  
“Thanks?”  
  
“No, I meant… you look more relaxed. Happier.”  
  
“Oh. Well…” Matsukawa lowers his mug and stares into it with a small smile on his face. “I managed to reach a big goal of mine, so… yeah, I’m feeling pretty good.”  
  
“I’ve been meaning to ask, but what happens to your painting after the exhibition? Does the Collective keep it, or…?”  
  
“Nah, I’ll get it back after it finishes. If they want to display it again, they’ll let me know.” Matsukawa grins. “I’m planning on having a proper folio website made up, showcasing some of my paintings, and your painting is going to be the _centrepiece_. It’ll be my _pride and joy_ —” Hanamaki groans, but he’s smiling, too.  
  
“I did say ages ago, didn’t I?” says Hanamaki. “You’re only going to keep improving. Your future paintings are just going to get even better, even more so than that piece.” But Matsukawa shakes his head, and he looks so warm and content, that Hanamaki finds can’t take his eyes off him.  
  
“Maybe,” says Matsukawa. “But _right now_ , your painting is my best. It’s always going to have a special place.”  
  
“You are such a _sap_.”  
  
“I’m just telling the truth.“  
  
Hanamaki shakes his head and forces himself to look away, sipping his coffee instead. He notices a large sheet on top of Matsukawa’s desk. “What are you working on?”  
  
“Oh, it’s a commission I got,” says Matsukawa, his grin now half-embarrassed, half-pleased. Hanamaki stands up and leans over to take a look at the half-finished painting, and the accompanying photographs beside it. “A lady contacted me two days after the opening night and commissioned me to paint a watercolour portrait of herself and her mother. It’s for her mother’s seventieth birthday present.”  
  
The painting is of an older and a younger woman, side by side, with what looks like magnolias, not yet coloured, cascading around them like a frame. There’s laughter in their eyes and warmth in their smiles. Hanamaki can’t quite explain it, but it’s a very _Matsukawa-esque_ piece.  
  
“It’s beautiful,” he says quietly. “It’s going to look incredible when it’s finished.”  
  
“I hope so,” says Matsukawa.  
  
“You know I’m right. Are you working on anything else?”  
  
“Hmm… on Monday, I’m meeting with an interior designer and the owner of a café that’s opening in a few months, near the Mediatheque. They haven’t decided what they want on the walls, but they’re interested in my paintings, so I’ll be showing them some works I’ve done. Oh! There was a receptionist from a doctor’s clinic who saw the exhibition—they’d been wanting some new paintings for their walls, so she recommended me to them, and they bought a bunch of my older works after I sent them photos.”  
  
“Nice!”  
  
“During the opening night, I had a lot of people asking me about my works and doing commissions,” says Matsukawa, now looking back down at his coffee mug in his hands. “I gave out a lot of business cards, too. My dad had told me to get some printed up, just in case, so that was lucky. I mean, I’m not sure how many more people will _actually_ contact me, so I’ll try not to get my hopes up too high, but… it’s a start.”  
  
“Will you be keeping both your jobs, then?” Hanamaki asks. “You’d need more time to paint, wouldn’t you?”  
  
Matsukawa nods. “I’ll see how I got for the next month or two, but I’m planning on quitting at Lawson eventually. I want to put more effort into networking and getting my art out there, and hopefully I’ll be okay financially, but… who knows. I might actually end up having to go back.”  
  
“Patience, grasshopper,” says Hanamaki wisely. “But this is definitely good.”  
  
“Yeah.” Matsukawa gives a comfortable sigh. “I’m so relieved. I feel more… confident? More free.”  
  
“You’ve worked hard and it’s paying off.” Hanamaki sits back down on the couch and sips his coffee. “Good on you. But if you mess up your eating habits again because you’re too busy _stress-painting_ —”  
  
“I promise! I’ll do better!” Matsukawa throws one hand up in surrender. “Put it this way: when I’m painting, I’ll think about the fact that you’re the reason I even got this far—”  
  
“ _Hey, now_ —”  
  
“—and I’ll think about you telling me off for not eating properly, and then I’ll remember to eat.”  
  
“That’s—I’m not—you’re not—” Hanamaki splutters. He can feel his face heat up. “We’ve had this conversation, dumbass! It’s all _your_ effort! I just… happened to be here.”  
  
Matsukawa just shrugs and says, “You can say whatever you like, but it’s the truth.” He takes a sip of his coffee whilst looking at Hanamaki pointedly, smirk tracing his face; Hanamaki groans again.  
  
Then, Matsukawa places his coffee mug down on the table, and asks, “Do you remember that piece I was working on before you said I could paint you?”  
  
“The phoenix? Yeah, I remember. Why?”  
  
“Well, I… actually finished it yesterday.” Matsukawa reaches behind his table to pull out a large plastic sleeve with a sheet of thick watercolour paper in it, and hands it to Hanamaki. “I want you to have it.”  
  
“What? I’m…” Stunned, Hanamaki sets his coffee down too, takes it, and carefully turns it over.  
  
The soaring phoenix, with a starry sky background, is painted with swirling reds, oranges, yellows, and pinks, and accented with several small details of white and electric blue in contrast. It comes alive on the paper, bright and filled with power and majesty. Hanamaki feels a lump in his throat, and words aren’t forming right, because there aren’t the words for this—for all of this, for the moment Matsukawa came into his life literally by way of accident, for the chances they’ve learnt to give each other and to themselves, for the moments they’ve spent together, for this bright world newly opened up to Hanamaki.  
  
He looks up at Matsukawa. By the way he’s looking back at Hanamaki, he understands what he wants to say—that for Matsukawa, too, it’s the very same, and Hanamaki doesn’t need to say anything.  
  
“I’m going to go back to studying teaching. I decided the day before yesterday,” says Hanamaki, running his thumb slowly along the edges of the painting’s plastic sleeve. “When university applications open, I’m… I’m going to go for it.”  
  
Matsukawa looks surprised for a moment, before a smile spreads across his face.  
  
“That’s great,” he says. “I’m really happy for you.”  
  
“I’m still worried,” says Hanamaki with a shrug, “but I think the thought of just sitting around with nothing to aim for ended up scaring me more, so…”  
  
“It’ll be worth giving another try,” says Matsukawa. “You deserve that, you know?”  
  
Hanamaki’s mouth opens slightly, whether in surprise or because he’s about to say something, he’s not actually sure. He closes his mouth and looks down the painting of the phoenix in his hands.  
  
“It’s too early to say,” he murmurs. “I’ll see how I go for the first semester—”  
  
“Hanamaki—”  
  
“—and I’ll learn to forgive myself for ditching it in the first place. But, slowly. I’ll give myself time. I think I’ll be okay.”  
  
He runs a hand through his hair with a little laugh and looks up at Matsukawa again. Matsukawa’s smile is warm, proud, bright, somewhat like this room—a place, a thing that Hanamaki has found moments of courage and forgiveness in.  
  
“Are you free tomorrow afternoon?” asks Hanamaki.  
  
“Tomorrow? Did you want to see that exhibition at the Science Museum?” ask Matsukawa.  
  
“Eventually. Maybe we can go when we next have some free time. I also found two more that I’d like to see with you—one about agronomy as part of a collaboration with an Australian company, and one about sustainable architecture,” says Hanamaki, and Matsukawa nods and makes an OK sign with his hand. Hanamaki taps the painting of the phoenix. “But, actually, I want to buy a frame for this, but I don’t know anything about where to go and what would look good, so… I was thinking, you could come with me?”  
  
“Of course. We could go now, if you want,” says Matsukawa. But Hanamaki shakes his head, carefully places the painting by beside him on the couch, and leans back comfortably.  
  
“If it’s okay with you, I kind of just want to take it easy today. I feel like I haven’t chilled out at your place for a while. I forget how nice and relaxing it is.”  
  
“Fine with me, but I need to paint, so I won’t be very good company.”  
  
“Would I have stuck around, if you weren’t good company?” says Hanamaki with raised eyebrows. Matsukawa huffs a laugh and looks away.  
  
“I’m glad you did,” he says. “I can’t even begin to tell you how glad I am that you stuck around.”  
  
“Maybe in a weird way, it was a good thing you scared me at Uniqlo and made me drop all those jeans.”  
  
“Oh my _god_ ,” says Matsukawa, burying his face in his hands.  
  
“I wouldn't recommend doing that for every good-looking guy you come across, though. You got lucky with me.”  
  
“ _Sto-o-op—_ ”  
  
“The look on your face when you asked me to be your model, and I told you to fuck off, _man_ …”  
  
Matsukawa groans into his hands as though in great pain, but when Hanamaki starts laughing, Matsukawa does too. He takes his hands from his face, and through their smiles, they look at each other with something like fondness, like mutual gratitude, like—  
  
( _—a love letter, disguised as a painting_.)  
  
They both look away from each other at the same time, and Hanamaki feels his face heat up again. He knows it’s the same with Matsukawa.  
  
“Yeah, I got really lucky,” says Matsukawa, voice quiet.  
  
“I was joking—”  
  
“I wasn’t.”  
  
Hanamaki chances another look at him. Matsukawa’s cheeks are bright red, and he begins twisting his fingers together restlessly.  
  
“It’s,” Matsukawa begins, as though the words are caught in his throat. “I’m…”  
  
( _You deserve that, you know?_ )  
  
They both know. It’s nothing to hide from.  
  
Slowly, Hanamaki stands up off the couch and steps towards him. Matsukawa’s eyes flicker up, but he doesn’t look at him directly, and his hands go still. Hanamaki stops right in front of him, close now, and he thinks Matsukawa has stopped breathing altogether. Hanamaki leans in and curls his arms around Matsukawa’s neck and tilts his head down, and Matsukawa tilts his head up, and—  
  
( _I love that about you._ )

 

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway, come yell with me about MatsuHana (and also Inarizaki) ☞ [twitter](https://twitter.com/naffnuffnice) | [tumblr](http://naff-nuff-nice.tumblr.com)  
>   
> ☆☆☆ Tumblr user [t-e-t-s-u-r-o-u](http://t-e-t-s-u-r-o-u.tumblr.com/) did an illustration of the portrait of [Hanamaki!](https://t-e-t-s-u-r-o-u.tumblr.com/post/171255241783/hi-this-is-my-lame-attempt-at-the-portrait) Thank you so much!! ♡♡♡
> 
> ☆☆☆ My dear friend [Leo](http://leoppii.tumblr.com/) also did an illustration slightlyyyyyy related to this fic too! [Have a look, it is super cute.](http://leoppii.tumblr.com/post/180612156119/bought-the-new-calpico-a-type-of-aerated) Thank you, Leo!! ♡♡♡


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